


"Indeed, miss?"

by nimiumcaelo



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: 1920s Fashion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Aunt-Niece Relationship, Bertie is a modern girl who wants a bob and short dresses, Bisexual Cyril "Barmy" Fotheringay-Phipps, Bohemianism, Competent Bertram "Bertie" Wooster, Dancing, F/F, Genderswap, Lesbian Character, Marriage, POV Jeeves, Pansexual Richard P. "Bingo" Little, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Rating May Change, chaperoning, fem!Bertie, fem!Jeeves, lesbian!Bertie, masc!Florence Craye, most of the Drones are genderswapped too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-04-20 19:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 23,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14267967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimiumcaelo/pseuds/nimiumcaelo
Summary: Bertrice "Bertie" Wooster is a young lady who scorns the attentions of gentlemen. Her maidservant, Rosalyn Jeeves, helps her remain in that cosy lifestyle of the young unattached maiden. However, unbeknownst to Rosalyn, her employer has motives for staying single beyond high standards.When Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Agatha come together to find Bertie a suitable husband, Bertie is stuck with more engagements than fingers on one hand and Rosalyn must find a way out for her wayward employer!Featuring: female Drones, inappropriate-for-a-young-lady haircuts, and short skirts that make Rosalyn feel faint!





	1. Rosalyn Jeeves and the Overheard Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was wandering through the Jeeves/Wooster tag and saw that nobody had yet dared to make a femslash version of these two! Well, let it never be said that I didn't rush in where the rest of you lot feared to tread!

I had not long been in Miss Wooster’s employ before I learned of her… shall we say, idiosyncrasies. It was not that I had reason for complaint; rather, I found everything to be exceptionally satisfactory, not to say exactly what I wished for in a young lady employer. No, the reason this revelation sat unwell with me was because it reminded me of my own oddities and made it rather difficult for me to ignore certain feelings which were best kept locked away.

The incident began, as most do, with an overheard conversation. Miss Wooster and I had been spending the week at Brinkley Court, the residence of Miss Wooster’s Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom. The week and its jovial atmosphere had been coming to a close (the latter being caused by the arrival of Miss Wooster’s Aunt Agatha) and I was intending to begin packing Miss Wooster’s things, when I heard hushed voices coming from within the room across the hall. Normally, of course, I do not partake in eavesdropping; however, due to previous experience I had learned that it is best, in all cases, to know the most information possible about Miss Wooster and her acquaintances so as to be of the most use when called upon. Thus, I waited about in the hall, which was mercifully empty, ostensibly replacing a fallen vase.

“She must know that these bohemian activities cannot continue if she is to marry a suitable gentleman,” the voice of Mrs. Gregson said.

“She has her inheritance already, Agatha,” replied the voice of Mrs. Travers. “She may not need to marry.”

“Inheritance is not everything. An unmarried woman becomes a social recluse in her later years; it is unavoidable. She may not realize it now, what with all her revelries, but she will end up a spinster, and a lonely one, too.”

“Perhaps she should quit the society of these young ladies.”

There came forth a sigh. “I believe it would be for the best. I will inform her in the morning and I trust you will put together a list of suitable young gentlemen ready to make her acquaintance.”

“Of course.”

The conversation came to a close and I made a hasty retreat from the premises. Miss Wooster was still enjoying the company of her family and friends downstairs and I was able to pack her things in the relative privacy of an empty room. Unfortunately, that privacy allowed me time to ruminate in my thoughts.

I had often noticed Miss Wooster’s disinterest in the young men of her acquaintance. I did not think it of any importance; certainly the available gentlemen were not nearly up to standard. No one could reasonably blame her for her lackadaisical attitude on that front. Yet I now found myself looking at Miss Wooster in a different light. Previously I had not remarked on her rather modern choice of companions. Now I could not help but see precisely what her aunts were seeing. A young lady who is so fond of spending the night at her friends’ houses may not raise the ignorant eyebrow, though anyone who knew the calibre of Miss Wooster’s companions knew that they were not the fair friends with which one can spend many an innocent hour in devotion.

Thus, it was with a somewhat critical eye that I viewed my employer when she came upstairs to dress for bed. Her demeanor was, as always, full of that particular _joie de vivre_ which she alone seems to possess in such quantities, and she greeted me cheerily as she entered the room.

“What-ho, Rosalyn!”

“Good evening, Miss Wooster,” I responded, laying out her night-gown and silk slippers.

She sat down pleasantly on the bed and I came over to assist her with removing her gown.

“Did you know that Angelo and Tuppy are all ooja-cum-spiff again? Apparently that incident with the flower bed and my shawl is a thing of the past!”

“Indeed, miss?”

“Oh, yes, rather! And glad I am, too. I say, it’s rather rotten to be constantly mistaken for being in love with one’s cousin, what! Hardly the ladylike thing, eh? And imagine the children!”

“Yes, miss.”

She continued her jubilant conversation for several minutes longer as I helped her complete her toilet. When I had finished, I inquired if there was anything else with which I might assist her.

“Oh, actually there is, Rosalyn, if you wouldn’t mind. See, I wanted your opinion on something.”

I assumed she had become caught in another less-than-ideal romantic entanglement. “Indeed, miss?”

“Yes. See, Rosalyn, the thing is that my Aunt Dahlia has just hired a consultant for her magazine.” Here Miss Wooster trembled slightly, yet iron came into her gaze. “This consultant apparently knows all there is to know on the subject of ladies’ hair-styles and, as he is from Naples, and thus won’t be available to me once he leaves my dear old aunt’s abode, I thought it would be jolly good to let him try and have a whack at the old locks and tresses, what?”

“Are you proposing acquiring a new hair-cut from this consultant, miss?”

“Yes, Rosalyn, that’s exactly what I’m proposing.”

“I should not advise it, miss.”

Miss Wooster narrowed her eyes at me. “And why’s that, Rosalyn? Have you another expert hair-stylist up your sleeve?”

“No, miss. I am simply concerned that that style which is currently in vogue will not suit your features most admirably.”

Miss Wooster’s hands stole to the features in question. “Are you saying you think I wouldn’t look good with a bob?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And why do you think that?”

“If you will permit my saying so, miss, you have a heart-shaped face and the bob style is best suited to oval- and rectangular-shaped faces. The style would widen your jaw in an unflattering manner.”

Miss Wooster raised said jaw several inches and affected an aloof air. “What if I wish to have my jaw widened, Rosalyn? Then what of it?”

“Then it is not my place to contest you, miss.”

“Hmph,” Miss Wooster grumbled, and turned away. “You may take your leave, Rosalyn. I have no further need of you.”

“Yes, miss.”

I departed.


	2. Unwelcome News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunts A. and D. put their feet down. Bertie chafes not a small amount.

I confess I was in a somewhat frigid mood come morning. While my immediate reaction to the knowledge that Miss Wooster and I shared certain inclinations was one of hope and a tremulous joy, thorough consideration showed that it would be unwise for me to desire anything of Miss Wooster, especially now that her aunts were attempting to sway her from the path of bohemianism. This affected my mood because, over the past months or so, I had been nursing a tender sort of affection for my employer. She was always so kind to me and I felt drawn to her as a plant towards the sunlight. The knowledge that I must give up my affection for good was rather painful.

Miss Wooster did not appear to be in the best of spirits, either, which was probably due to our disagreement the previous night. When I set her cup of tea on the bedside table and opened the curtains, she blinked at me in a peevish manner and scowled into the sheets over her lap.

“How’s the weather today, Rosalyn?” she inquired blandly. “Still fair?”

“Yes, miss, it appears that today will be extremely clement. Few clouds are expected and the temperature is to be near twenty degrees.”

Miss Wooster yawned. “Charming. I expect Angelo will want a tennis match, then, eh? Shame we're leaving.”

“Undoubtedly the weather would be suitable for it, miss.”

She rose and began to remove her nightclothes. I had laid out her garments for the day – a muted gray tweed skirt with dove blouse – and assisted her in dressing. While completing the actions, I attempted to keep my physical contact with Miss Wooster at a minimum. Unfortunately, this drew attention to myself and Miss Wooster fixed me with a critical eye. It is no difficulty for her to parse out the emotions of another and she had always been able to read me with the same ease that she read her mystery novels. Perhaps fortunately, perhaps not, she attributed my ill mood to her decision regarding the hair-stylist from Naples and began to vehemently defend herself.

“I’ll have you know, Rosalyn,” she declared. “That seven out of every ten women about town these days are sporting a bob. Mary Pickford got one, even.”

“Yes, miss.”

“I’ve had these long locks of mine for years, now, and it’s high time they’ve gotten the boot.”

“Very good, miss.”

“And you can style a bob, you know. You don’t just have to leave it hang like the laundry.”

“Yes, miss.”

Miss Wooster frowned at me as I buttoned her blouse. “Stop using that soupy tone, Rosalyn. I know you’re upset with me.”

“Oh, no, miss, I am quite content.”

“Oh, yes, Rosalyn. Out with it.”

I selected a pair of shoes and helped her to put them on. I was, of course, not at all intending to reveal the true reason of my discontent to Miss Wooster; that would be highly inappropriate. I was just about to indicate further reasons why Miss Wooster should not opt for a bob hair-style when I was saved the effort by a heavy knock upon Miss Wooster’s door.

It was her Aunt Agatha. I was reminded immediately of the lady’s intent to forbid Miss Wooster’s continuation of her “revelries.”

“Good morning, Rosalyn,” she greeted me. “I trust Miss Wooster is awake?”

I could hear Miss Wooster behind me attempting to hide in the closet. “Yes, madam, she is.”

“Good, good. I need to have a word with her alone, Rosalyn, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, madam. Mrs. Gregson to see you, miss.” I opened the door and let said visitor inside, myself stepping out into the hallway, yet remaining within earshot of any conversation.

“Oh, halloa, aged relative!” I heard Miss Wooster say, a trifle nervously. Evidently Mrs. Gregson had discovered her hiding place. “Spiffing day today, what? I fancy Angelo and I’ll try our hand at a bit of tennis, since it’s so pleasant. The snail on his whatsit and all that rot, eh?”

“Bertie, stop dithering. I need to speak with you on a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Oh, ah, really? That wouldn’t be anything to do with that cricket ball in the silver case, would it? Because that really wasn’t my fault, it was all Tuppy and she – “

“Bertie, do be quiet. This has nothing to do with any cricket balls.”

“What is it, then, Aunt A.?”

I heard a sigh. “Bertie, you are not to be seeing your bohemian friends any longer – “

“But Aunt A.!”

“ – that includes your friends,” there was a pause, as when one consults a list, “ ‘Ginger,’ ‘Bingo,’ and ‘Gussie,’ as well as any others from that club of yours.”

“But Gussie’s engaged to Matthias! And Bingo’s been engaged to at least five men this month!”

“I don’t care. Your relations with them have been exceedingly inappropriate for a young lady of your standing and I wish you to cut off all contact with them except when chaperoned.”

“Chaperoned?!” Miss Wooster cried. “But then I’ll have to miss the annual dart championship!”

“All the better, then. Young ladies throwing darts is unseemly.”

“But Aunt A.! Surely you don’t mean – “

“I do,” Mrs. Gregson said finally. “And if I hear that you have been going against my orders, I will be forced to move in with you and chaperone you myself until you learn some sense. Is that clear?”

There was another sigh, deeper this time. “Yes, Aunt A.”

“Good. I am doing this only for your benefit, Bertie. I trust you’ll remember that. Dahlia should be round with a list of young gentlemen we wish you to make the acquaintance of shortly. Do not make this more difficult than it already is.”

“Yes, Aunt A.”

I heard the sounds of Mrs. Gregson preparing to depart and I hastily removed myself from the immediate premises. The lady in question exited Miss Wooster’s room and went downstairs. After such a meeting, I expected Miss Wooster to require me and I was not mistaken; as soon as I had shut the door behind myself, she let the calm mask fall from her demeanor and grimaced most pitifully.

“Rosalyn,” she declared. “I’m ruined.”

“Indeed, miss?”

“Yes. Do you know what my Aunt Agatha came in here to say? She came in to tell me I’m ‘not allowed’ to be in the company of my chums – my _female_ chums – without a chaperone! Have you ever heard such blithering nonsense in your life, Rosalyn? I say, this just about does it for me. I can stand being pushed around and spat on, but a Wooster has her limits! I can’t stand such an underhanded trick as this, Rosalyn, I simply can’t!”

“Indeed, miss.”

“I hope you’re not still mad at me about the hair, Rosalyn, because honestly that is the least of my concerns at present. I will keep these locks forever if only I may seek solace in the arms of mine own familiar friends! I have been betrayed by my own flesh and blood, Rosalyn! I’m like that chap who comes home from war only to find his wife’s gone and slept with the neighbor and then gets murdered for his trouble.”

“I believe you are referring to Agamemnon, miss, who after his return from the Trojan War found his wife Clytemnestra had been seduced by Aegisthus and then was murdered by Aegisthus and his companions.”

“Yes, Rosalyn, exactly. And now Aunt Dahlia’s going to bring me some list of suitors to court! Bah! What bally nonsense, Rosalyn, is what I say!”

“Indeed, miss.”

There came another knock upon Miss Wooster’s door. Miss Wooster groaned and placed her head in her hands. “Open it, Rosalyn, open it. If I must face my doom, face it I must! A Wooster does not shy away from danger.”

“Yes, miss. Mrs. Travers to see you, miss.”

“Bertie,” Mrs. Travers began in a beseeching tone. “I trust Agatha has been to see you?”

Miss Wooster simply uttered a groan.

“Yes, well, it had to happen at some point, you know, my dear. I have brought you a list of some young eligible bachelors and I want you to look over it.” Mrs. Travers attempted to hand Miss Wooster the list, but, finding that Miss Wooster’s hands were otherwise employed, set it beside Miss Wooster on the bed. “They’re all very sweet men, Bertie, and just the right type to help you settle down. I know it’s a big change but you’re strong, dear girl, and you’ll pull through all right.”

Miss Wooster gave a somewhat pained sigh. “But Aunt Dahlia,” she whinged, head still lowered. “Why must I lose all my friends? Can’t I still see them sometimes?”

“Not without a chaperone, my dear. I’m sorry, but it must be done. It will be better for you, this way,” Mrs. Travers added a trifle awkwardly.

Miss Wooster sighed again. Mrs. Travers rose and squared her shoulders.

“Enough of this pouting, Bertie. You’ll get over it soon enough. Just – come down and have some breakfast before you head out, why don’t you? Anatole has fried some wonderful sausage and I know how much you like it.”

Miss Wooster did not respond.

“Bertie, please,” Mrs. Travers grunted. “I need you to understand where I’m coming from. I’ve always looked on you rather like a daughter, you know, and – well, I simply can’t let you become a spinster, dear girl!”

Miss Wooster mumbled something.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Miss Wooster repeated, raising her flushed and angry face from her hands. “‘What if I _want_ to become a spinster?’”

Mrs. Travers huffed. “Then you’ll change your mind eventually. Come down and have something.”

Miss Wooster turned away ostentatiously.

“Very well. If you wish to mope, you may. But you can’t weasel your way out of this one, Bertie. You have to face it.”

Mrs. Travers departed. About two beats after she had closed the door after herself, Miss Wooster collapsed backwards upon the bed and moaned.

“Ruined!” she gasped. “My life is ruined, Rosalyn!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, guys!! Also, please comment!  
> \- M


	3. A Wooster Does Not Give Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie comes up with a solution, yet it may not satisfy all parties.

Miss Wooster heaved several more dramatic sighs, then froze.

“Rosalyn!” She sat bolt upright.

“Yes, miss?” I was somewhat startled by her behavior.

“I’ve got it! It’s the most corking idea, Rosalyn, it’s sure to work! You will be my chaperone!”

Miss Wooster’s face was sparkling in renewed hope. I wished very much that I would not have to dim that joy.

“You know all my friends already,” she went on. “And everybody trusts you – even Aunt A.! Oh, Rosalyn, it’s perfect!”

I bit my lip. I never liked to trust such simple solutions, and yet…

“Perhaps, miss, Mrs. Gregson and Mrs. Travers will not find fault in the proposition.”

“Oh, come now, Rosalyn, of course they won’t! They may not love you as their own flesh and blood, but they certainly trust you as it, if not more!”

“That is kind of you to say, miss. I only fear that Mrs. Gregson and Mrs. Travers may see this as a way for you to avoid their restrictions on behavior.”

“Well, of course it is, Rosalyn, don’t be daft. I’m still going to do everything I do, just with you palling around the whole time. If, that is, you don’t mind following after the young mistress hither and yon like an old nursemaid, eh, Rosalyn?” She fixed me with a hesitant glance. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“No, miss, I would not,” I confessed.

“Spiffing! It’s all settled, then. Absolutely topping! I say, Rosalyn, in the words of Matthias, you are the absolute dream rabbit!”

“Thank you, miss.”

Wishing to inform her Aunts directly of her acquiescence to their plan, Miss Wooster rushed downstairs. I packed the last few remaining items and informed one of the footmen to take them downstairs to the car. After approximately a quarter of an hour, I found myself once more in the two-seater with Miss Wooster jubilant behind the wheel.

“I say, Rosalyn,” she beamed, “we’ve really out-foxed them this time! What a corking idea that was! And they’re all for it, I should mention; you are the veritable Abraham Lincoln of respectability – was it Lincoln who was respectable?”

“Yes, miss. He was renowned for his supposed honesty. Though he detested the moniker, he was often referred to as – “

“Yes, yes, Rosalyn, but save it for the long winter nights, eh? I feel like Atlas did after a pal of his came up to him and said, ‘Here, old chap, have off for a few.’”

I neglected to mention that no such occurrence had ever, to my knowledge, occurred. It did not seem relevant. “Your Aunts were favorable towards my acting as your chaperone, miss?”

“They jolly well were! Aunt Dahlia said she couldn’t think of a better option, what with you being both respectable and of the female sex. They are mighty keen on getting me married off but still wary of my spending prolonged hours with men. Tuh! What rot, I say, Rosalyn – utter rot!”

“Indeed, miss. The irregularities in their beliefs, while understandable, do constitute a rather confusing set of instructions.”

“Precisely! And how am I to know what to do if I’m chaperoned around beazels and around chaps! What do they think I’ll do – launch myself at any unattached person under the age of fifty? A Wooster has standards,” she sniffed.

“Undoubtedly they are acting out of concern for your well-being, miss, and not out of any lack of respect towards yourself.”

“Tchah! Have you finally cracked, Rosalyn?”

“Not to my knowledge, no, miss,” I responded, a trifle coldly.

“Then how can you believe they are acting out of anything but a profound _dis_ respect! They don’t trust me to do anything so they bung me off with suitors and chaperones so I won’t lose all my money or some rot. It’s bally infuriating, Rosalyn!”

“Understandably so, miss.”

Miss Wooster gave a small shiver, then sighed wistfully. “At least that’s out of the way, though. I don’t think you know how grateful I am, Rosalyn, for your agreeing to this. I know it isn’t specifically written out in your contract to ferry the young mistress to and fro with her pals and save her from fast ruffians in dark alleys, but without you I’d be stuck moping along after Aunt Agatha or one of her boorish ‘suitable young gentlemen,’ so I really must say thank you.”

“It is no bother, miss, I assure you.”

“Still, I’d like to repay you somehow. How’s’about I give you an early bonus, eh? Or would a cruise be better? I don’t know if I’m quite ready yet to get rid of those fuchsia stockings, but I might just consider it if you turn out to be the best bally chaperone since those head monks up in their mountain temples watching over the lower monks and saying, ‘Gotcha!’ if they catch them up to any funny business. Right difficult, I suppose that’d be, what with all the rocks to hide behind.”

I turned to look at the scenery rushing past to hide a small smile. “Indubitably, miss.”

The ride passed in much the same chatter-filled way that it had. Miss Wooster related tales of her tennis exploits with her cousin Angelo and compared them to previous years’; she sang several show-tunes and hymns that we had encountered during the week; she pondered with me what an appropriate meal would consist of for our return to the flat (I suggested a simple Cumberland pie but she declared herself sick of potatoes and desirous of turnips or beets or some other such vermilion vegetable). Thus my discomfort was put off for several pleasant hours.

The pleasantness could not last, of course. Whence we found ourselves ascending the stairs to the flat, I found that my heart was not ascending with us. As Miss Wooster unlocked the door and whistled her way inside, I realized that I would be required to stiffen my upper lip and put away any tender feelings towards my employer, regardless of their being _ab imo pectore_. Miss Wooster had no intentions of quitting her gay revelries and their resultant amorous escapades, and I confess I was and still am not modern enough to feel comfortable sharing a lover. We simply were not of the same mind on the issue and to save my heart pain whilst chaperoning her during her adventures, I must firmly and decisively cut off these tender passions.

Thus it was, and I served a small roast ( _sans_ potatoes) and put away Miss Wooster’s things without so much as a flickering disappointment. I may have shed a heartbroken tear or two once locked away in my bedchamber, yet that is of no consequence. Love unreturned has its rainbow, and though I did not see it at present, I was certain to find it shining about at some point. Besides, I usually had no opportunity to join in on bohemian activities, but whilst attending them with Miss Wooster I would, most probably, have the chance of banishing all unprofessional thoughts towards my employer from my mind. It would simply be a matter of time.

Hopefully.


	4. In Which the Chaperoning Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie wears a rather modern dress. She and Rosalyn go to the Queens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the 'Queens' club is, as you might have guessed, basically just the 'Drones' but for ladies. Drones are male bees that don't work and live off of the other bees' toil, and, while that's a really neat little analogy that Wodehouse made, I figured I should probably swap it out just a little because of the whole genderswap thing. Queen bees don't do work, either, and only really exist to reproduce, which isn't exactly a perfect analogy, but works well enough, I suppose.  
> (Also, for those of you who don't know Latin, _frater_ means brother and _soror_ means sister, so Rosalyn is making a little joke at the beginning.)

I was somewhat uncomfortable with my newfound chaperoning duties. I was not in the habit of fraternizing (or, rather, _sororizing_ ) with Miss Wooster’s acquaintances, and it would be distinctly obvious to any of the members of their party how Miss Wooster was being followed around. Miss Wooster is an accomplished hostess and always attempts to make any guests of hers feel welcome, though I knew I would, due to a mixture of propriety and personal feeling, end up watching her from the side of the room, performing my duty yet forced to remain outside. That is not to say that I wished to join in with her friends – even if there were not the issue of class, they are rather too excitable for my tastes – but, rather, that I wished I would not have to be there at all. There are many ways in which I tend to enjoy myself whilst Miss Wooster is at one of her clubs. By chaperoning her I would be unable to participate in any of them.

However, I did my best to appear at ease with the situation. I am, as I have said before, fond of Miss Wooster and, besides, I had agreed to these duties through my own free will. To chafe and pull out at the eleventh hour would be unthinkable.

The time came for me to test my skill at chaperoning two days after we arrived back in London. Miss Wooster, tired from her trip and the still-fresh emotional wounds of recent events, decided to spend a day in rest and recovery; the next morning she declared herself fit and ready to face the outside world.

“Ah, Rosalyn,” she said while I was helping her fasten her brassiere, “I hope you don’t mind, but I was thinking of toddling ‘round to the Queens later today. Bingo’s just returned from her little tryst in Scotland and I wanted to help ease the transmi – train – transatla – what’s that word, Rosalyn, that means ‘shift’?”

“Transition, miss?”

“That’s the one! Yes, her _transition_ back into the life of a single cherry, pulled away from its pair at the root. She’d got engaged to some fellow up north but they broke it off and now she’s got a hefty case of forlorn glances and drooping shoulders, apparently. I thought I may as well try and buck her up with a nice afternoon binge.”

“Indeed, miss?” I selected one of Miss Wooster’s dresses – a modest, ankle-length affair in flattering indigo – and was about to help her into it when she stiffened and drew herself up, casting me an icy stare.

“Now, Rosalyn, you know I don’t want to wear that one on my first day back in the metrop.”

“Is the dress not comfortable enough for you, miss? This lavender one is made of a softer material, if that is a concern.”

Miss Wooster pursed her lips and attempted to look commanding. I fear the effect was diminished, somewhat, by her standing in her undergarments. “It’s not the material, Rosalyn; you know what I’m referring to. Where did those nice velvet ones end up, with the ruffles on the skirts?”

“I really could not say, miss. Perhaps you misplaced them?”

Miss Wooster brushed past me to the bureau, knelt down, and pulled a scarlet monstrosity out of the lowermost drawer. She stood, then, and brandished the garment before herself. I confess I may have flinched.

“No, Rosalyn, I did not misplace them anywhere,” she said. “I want to wear this one.”

I met her iron gaze with my own. “Are you certain, miss? I fear you may be mistaken for a member of the chorus.”

“Yes, I’m certain, Rosalyn. Now, quit gaping at it and help me put it on.”

“Very good, miss.”

I put away the other dress and assisted her into the garment, hideous though it was. She stood, then, in front of the mirror and admired herself from several angles.

“Now, see, Rosalyn – it’s not so bad.”

I disagreed quite vehemently. The dress – if one could call it that – merely brushed her knees and had an open back. True, the modern style asserted that boyish figures such as that of Miss Wooster were to be desired, and this style of dress was quite becoming to her, yet I still had to resist the urge to tear it to pieces. One can recognize someone’s beauty in the nude and still wish for them not to appear in public in such a state. Such was the case with this dress.

“Indeed, miss. Will that be all, miss?”

Miss Wooster paused in her admiration. “Oh, if you could just help me with my hair, Rosalyn.”

I collected one of Miss Wooster’s combs and began brushing the fair strands smooth, then gathered them to one side and pinned them above her right shoulder.

“Thank you, Rosalyn, that will be all.”

“Yes, miss.”

I departed from the room and headed into the kitchen, where I sat down and ran a hand over my fevered brow. I began to fear that chaperoning Miss Wooster may be a trifle too difficult to handle, even for myself.

 

~

 

We left the flat shortly before lunch and headed to Miss Wooster’s club. At first, I thought I would simply remain in the entryway and look in every now and again to ascertain whether Miss Wooster’s behavior was appropriate; Miss Wooster, though, before I had a chance to act, took my elbow and dragged me into the main rooms after her.

“What-ho, Barmy!” she cried upon spotting said individual. “What’s your score?”

Miss Fotheringay-Phipps was engaged in tossing playing cards into a hat. She looked up upon hearing Miss Wooster’s address and was about to reply when she spotted me, and gaped quite openly.

“Oh, hullo, Bertie! I think I’m up to twenty just now. I say! – I didn’t know your girl Rosalyn was joining the club!”

The main rooms of Miss Wooster’s club are always quite full of chatter, yet at this exclamation a general murmur went ‘round. I felt a faint color rise to my cheeks.

“Oh, no, Rosalyn’s not joining the club,” Miss Wooster explained, much to my gratification. I felt nearly every pair of eyes watching me. “She’s just been posted as my chaperone for the next couple of weeks.”

“Chaperone?” Miss Fotheringay-Phipps gaped again. The expression was not very becoming. “What do you need a chaperone for? We’re all ladies here – at least,” she added, looking around, “I _think_ we are.”

Miss Wooster gave a light chuckle and sat down beside Miss Fotheringay-Phipps on one of the Chesterfields. “No, it’s just my beastly Aunt Agatha, Barmy. She’s got it into her head again to marry me off and she doesn’t want me palling around with any ‘bohemians’ without a chaperone.”

Miss Fotheringay-Phipps frowned, affronted. “Well, I say!”

“That’s what I told her! But, once an Aunt sets her sights,” Miss Wooster continued sagely, “she’ll be dashed if she lets up. It’s not so bad, though, because I convinced her to let Rosalyn chaperone me, instead of some silly old goon with eyebrows to his chin. Now, I’ve just got to drag poor Rosalyn with me everywhere I go until the Aunts let the veil and gown pass from their minds like water over a chicken.”

“Does water do that?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. _Does_ water pass over a chicken like that, Rosalyn?”

I had been attempting to remove myself to the wall and avoid the curious gazes of the club’s many patrons. At Miss Wooster’s address, though, I was forced to return to her side and face the scrutiny of about twenty different young ladies.

“No, miss. I believe the expression you are looking for is, ‘passing like water over a duck’s back.’ Ducks, as aquatic birds, have feathers which do not allow water to penetrate to the skin. By saying that something passes like water over a duck’s back, one is saying that it passes without consequence or without effect.”

Miss Wooster beamed up at me, then turned to Miss Fotheringay-Phipps. “Brilliant, isn’t she, Barmy? I say, it won’t be half bad having her following after me!”

“I wish I had a chaperone!” Miss Fotheringay-Phipps mumbled. “Seems like loads of fun.”

Miss Wooster cast me a secret smile, then joined Miss Fotheringay-Phipps in her card-tossing game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](http://static.boredpanda.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/1920s-women-fashion-42-5710ca9120a15__700.jpg) is something like what I thought Bertie's dress would look like. [This](http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3585/3529431363_098351a810_o.jpg) is more along the lines of what Rosalyn wanted her to wear.  
>  Thanks for reading!  
> \- M


	5. Cheering the Single Cherry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bingo is heartbroken. She, Bertie, Barmy, and Rosalyn go see a film together.

We were not long within Miss Wooster’s club before Miss Little arrived, wailing for her demon lover. Her countenance, usually quite rosy-cheeked and jubilant, was now clouded over with the woe, as Miss Wooster had said, of the single cherry. She glanced aimlessly about at the rooms and as she walked throughout, conversations died and expressions soured as if Miss Little were in possession of a type of aerosol poison.

She ended her stagger with a collapse onto an armchair across from Miss Wooster and Miss Fotheringay-Phipps. Attempting a weak simper, she opened the conversation with a forlorn, “What-ho, Bertie – Barmy.”

Miss Wooster, tongue curled about her lip in concentration, tossed a card into a particularly difficult hat, then looked up and cast a sympathetic glance at her woebegone friend.

“What-ho, Bingo! I say, tough luck about old Mac, eh?”

Miss Little heaved a sigh reminiscent of a cold wind across a cemetery. “Yes, I suppose it is. I have seen love die, Bertie, never to live again.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, old thing! Where’s that old fish in the ocean spirit?”

“My cousin just got back from a fishing trip,” Miss Fotheringay-Phipps put in.

Miss Little let her eyes roll towards Heaven. “What does it matter if there’s other fish when the only fish I want won’t let me catch him?” she murmured.

“Well,” reasoned Miss Wooster. “You can’t say he’s the _only_ one you want. Fate might have it up her sleeve to send a large, juicy catch just positively racing towards your hook in the near future.”

“But Mac was a slim thing with legs like beanpoles!”

“Details, details!” Miss Wooster dismissed with a wave of her hand. “I never said Fate couldn’t send you a shrimp, as well.”

Miss Little sunk further into her armchair and covered her face with her forearm, uttering a moan.

Miss Fotheringay-Phipps reached forward and patted Miss Little upon the knee. “Cheer up, Bingo! Why don’t you go catch a picture and have some fun? There’s a new John Barrymore film out and I know how much you love him!”

“Corking idea, Barmy!” Miss Wooster cried. “Let’s trickle ‘round there right now! We can get some ice-cream later, too, Bingo – as a special treat! – and perhaps later we can go dancing!”

Miss Little removed her arm from her face and smiled again, with more strength this time. “Oh, you two are darlings,” she said. “Thank you _so_ much. That sounds lovely. There’s nothing like an attractive fellow to take my mind off things.”

“Words to live by,” said Miss Wooster, grinning.

The threesome then stood and made for the door, I following in their tracks at a mild distance. Once we were out once more on the pavement, the three separated slightly with Miss Wooster and Miss Little in the front and I and Miss Fotheringay-Phipps taking up the rear. As the theatre was not far from Miss Wooster’s club, we walked and the few minutes spent thus were filled with conversation.

“I’ve always said Scots are rough!” said Miss Fotheringay-Phipps. “And I’ll say it again. Scots are rough!”

Miss Little sighed wistfully. “But Mac was such a sweetheart! Whenever his sheep dog would come after me, he’d always hold her back and whisper sweet nonsense…”

“To you?”

“No, to the dog. But it was the thought that counted!”

Miss Wooster clasped her hands behind her back. “I say, Bingo, let’s put aside dreamy Scotland chaps and sheep dogs for now. _I’ve_ just got back from my Aunt Dahlia’s humble abode and I dare say you haven’t yet heard what trouble has befallen the last of the Wooster clan!”

“You’ve got trouble?” Miss Little gawked bluntly, seeming ruffled at the transition of the spotlight from herself to Miss Wooster. “What trouble? Have you got engaged again?”

“Oh-ho-ho, have I only just avoided it – like Daniel scooped right out of the lion’s jaws!”

Miss Fotheringay-Phipps giggled. “Oh, it’s a stymie, Bingo!”

“What happened?”

“My Aunts Agatha and Dahlia have hatched a plan to get me into a veil and white dress,” Miss Wooster declared. “But the only way I’m still allowed to be in the same room as another member of the human race under the age of fifty is if I’m chaperoned – which makes about as much bally sense as dousing out a chap’s fire and asking him to make tea, but anyway – that’s why Rosalyn, ever the paragon of usefulness and intellect, is following me around like Mary’s lamb. And until my Aunts let this matter pass from their minds like water over a duck’s back, I shall be stuck with an extra appendage,” Miss Wooster paused, glancing at me, “I hope you don’t mind me calling you an appendage, Rosalyn.”

“Not at all, miss,” I said.

Miss Little gawked for several more minutes. “But why would you be chaperoned around _girls?_ ”

“That’s exactly what I thought!” Miss Wooster continued. “They think I’m too bohemian and that it’s interfering with my marriage prospects.” The latter two words were uttered with profound distaste, as of someone biting into a cake only to find it boot-oil flavored.

“That’s rich!” Miss Little grumbled. “And you’ve always been around the reasonable sort of bohemian, too!”

“Exactly!” Miss Fotheringay-Phipps agreed.

“Well, thank you, but Aunts will be Aunts, I suppose. I shall have to play Job for a fortnight, but that’s not so bad. Hardly like being married off, eh?” She chuckled lightly.

We turned into the theatre and Miss Wooster, after several light protestations from her friends, paid for our tickets: I was surprised and a small amount disconcerted to see they were not general admission. The ladies made their way towards their seats and I, following, found myself atop a velvet cushion sharing an armrest with Miss Wooster. I was only able to reconcile this with my sense of propriety by remembering that this was the only way I’d truly be able to chaperone her in a dark theatre; yet still my conscience rankled.

The movie was not anything outrageously interesting, though it did have a fair plot. It followed the story of a nobleman studying for priesthood who abandons his vocation in order to court a beautiful young lady. Miss Little seemed to enjoy it; her dreamy sighs and choked sobs when the couple shared a glance or held hands carried throughout the darkened room. Miss Wooster, I thought, would be no less enthralled; yet I found her, more often than not, turning towards me rather than the screen. Not that she spoke in the theatre – Miss Wooster was not in the habit of bothering her fellow movie-goer to quite that extent – rather, she would glance at me with a humorous glitter in her eye or would send me a soft smile accompanying the swell of the music. I found very soon that the movie could not hold my attention completely.

It held no interest whatsoever when, startlingly, I felt a soft elbow pressing against my sleeve. I had kept my arms close to myself in order to avoid unnecessary contact with Miss Wooster. It seemed that she, however, had no such qualms on the point and was actually leaning towards me. I made a small attempt to shift away, though, being seated next to a rather portly gentleman on my other side, I found that a trifle difficult. Miss Wooster, for once, kept her eyes on the screen.

The picture ended and the lights went up before I could do anything potentially dangerous or embarrassing. Miss Fotheringay-Phipps was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and the apples had returned to Miss Little’s cheeks as she chattered about the film. Miss Wooster laughed and responded indulgently to Miss Little’s declarations of undying love for Mr. Barrymore, suggesting that she write him a letter if she was so goofy over him.

“Oh, do you think I could?” mused Miss Little as we exited the theatre amidst a crush of other bodies. I felt a small amount of irritation at the knowledge that, currently, Miss Wooster’s stocking-clad knees were being brushed against by myriad trouser legs.

“I don’t see why not,” Miss Fotheringay-Phipps said. “He probably gets loads of them from his admirers.”

Miss Wooster clapped Miss Little on the shoulder. “I think it’s a splendid idea, Bingo! Now, let’s go get some ice-cream – I’m in the mood for mint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie they go to see is _When a Man Loves_ (1927). I haven't ever seen the entirety of it, but what I've put in about the plot is true.  
>  Thanks, as always, for reading! All comments are appreciated :)  
> \- M


	6. Assorted Flirtations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group gets ice-cream. Bingo finds an attractive fellow to take her mind off things. Rosalyn is not left alone.

The counter, which had been a brilliant chrome at the parlor’s opening, was now faded due to the dozens of elbows and glasses which had rested and rubbed against its surface throughout the day. Miss Wooster and her two friends seated themselves on swiveling stools covered in red vinyl and tilted their heads together immediately as if attracted by magnets. I stood back a bit, closer to the windows at the front of the shop, with my eye on my employer’s profile. It was not long before the waiter stepped towards them, his mahogany hair brilliantined and a pencil mustache resting on his upper lip. Miss Little peeled away from her friends suddenly, and leaned forwards, catching the edge of her bust on the counter-top.

“Good afternoon,” the waiter said pleasantly. “Can I get you anything?”

“That depends. Is your name and calling address available?”

A small smile grew on the man’s face, dimpling his cheeks. “If you’d like, but I wouldn’t charge. A face as pretty as yours is payment enough.”

Miss Little’s eyes sparkled. “Well, aren’t you a pet. I’ll take it, and a chocolate ice-cream, too, thanks.”

“In a cone or a bowl?”

“Cone.”

“Coming right up.” The man gathered up the ice-cream and presented it to Miss Little. He then pulled out his notepad and a small pencil and scribbled what was presumably his address. “The name is Paul, and the address is here. Will that be all?”

“For now. My friends might want something, though.”

Miss Wooster and Miss Fotheringay-Phipps had indeed turned towards the waiter. Miss Fotheringay-Phipps blushed shyly at the attractive man and ordered a banana split. Miss Wooster smiled politely and ordered a mint milkshake – then, she glanced over at me, and specified that it come with two straws.

“Oh, I’m sorry, miss, but we’ve just run out of mint.”

Miss Wooster blinked. “Oh, well, what can you do, eh? Do you have strawberry?”

The waiter checked the tubs behind the counter. “Indeed we do.”

“Can I have a strawberry milkshake, then – still with two straws?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

The waiter collected and presented Miss Wooster’s and Miss Fotheringay-Phipps’s respective desserts. Though he had other customers to attend to afterwards, his gaze kept stealing back towards Miss Little, who was giving him what I believe is called “moony eyes.”

When Miss Wooster received her milkshake, she slid off of her stool and shouldered her way towards me. There was a thick ledge on the window at about the height of my elbow and she set the drink down there, standing close due to the crowd.

“Didn’t you want to join us?” she asked. “There was room enough for four before that party came in.”

I took a moment to collect myself, then responded awkwardly, “It would not have been my place, miss.”

“Oh, _tuh_ , Rosalyn,” Miss Wooster declared, waggling a finger at me. She shifted her stance to lean her shoulder against the window, hip cocked. “You were beside us for the whole movie! And, besides, you’re stuck following me around and can’t be with your own pals, so it would be absolutely beastly of me to keep you from the fun. Anyway, one can only take so much of Bingo’s hormonal tides,” Miss Wooster cast an amused glance at said person, who was flirtatiously licking her ice-cream cone at the waiter, “and I left Barmy engaged in a heated debate with some elderly cove about the chances of some horse in that race on Saturday. Terribly dry stuff, that. I much prefer your company.”

I felt somewhat more relaxed, yet still uncomfortable. “Thank you, miss.”

Miss Wooster fiddled somewhat with the straws, then abruptly took a sip of the drink, her light lip rouge staining the paper.

“Hm,” she mused. “It’s less sweet than the American kind. Here, try it.”

She pushed the drink towards me and smiled encouragingly. I paused, then leant down and brought my lips to the extra straw. I don’t usually prefer sweeter treats but this one was pleasant. Miss Wooster was correct that it was less sweet than the milkshakes we had sampled in New York; this one was creamier and contained small flecks of red strawberry flesh amidst the pale pink ice-cream. I absentmindedly glanced up at Miss Wooster whilst tasting the drink and caught her staring at me. She did not look away, simply smiled and kept her gaze steady on mine. I was the one to break eye-contact.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Better than the American or worse?”

“It is hard to say, miss. If one prefers the taste of the strawberry itself, than this dessert would be superior. If, however, one is desiring a more saccharine treat, the American version may be more appropriate. I believe in terms of overall quality, this one may prevail, though it is, of course, up to one’s individual taste.”

Miss Wooster’s smile grew fond. “Perfect analysis, as always, Rosalyn. I say, though, I think I might just prefer the Yankee ones. Is that shallow of the young mistress, do you think?”

“Not at all, miss. I am given to understand that most, having tasted both American and British desserts, generally prefer the former. It is something to do with the ratio of sugar and cream to other ingredients.”

“Interesting,” Miss Wooster said, then took another sip of the drink. “I take it you prefer the homeland concoction, though, eh?”

I assented, and she smiled.

I am not generally given to staring, though everyone engages in the practice occasionally. While standing beside Miss Wooster here, though, with the room loud in conversation and full of the scents of butterscotch and vanilla and with the fluorescent lighting glinting off of the dull counter-top, I could not help but be drawn to the dulcet presence beside me. I was uncomfortable with her attempts at fraternization, yet I cannot pretend they did not have their effect on me. My resolution to rescind my affections for my employer was still present; however, I felt it rapidly losing its firmness. There is no one quite so persuasive as a beautiful woman who turns her full attentions on you. I was not, by any stretch of the imagination, immune to her feminine allure.

Several hazy thoughts led to others and soon I was falling back into a habit I had long been free of: wilfully desiring Miss Wooster in the bohemian fashion. I let my eyes linger on the pale lashes framing her eyes and the thin but wide smile which curled around the straw; once, much to my current embarrassment, I let myself glance quickly at the pale shoulders and upper chest exposed by her dress. One would think that I would be shocked with myself or perhaps frustrated that I could not be free of this attraction. Had I been less of a romantic at heart, perhaps that is what I would have done. As it is, I merely accepted this break-down of my self-control with the air of one who witnesses a thunderstorm approaching; there was nothing I could reasonably do, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

“Do you think she’s forgotten him already?” Miss Wooster asked, looking at Miss Little.

I understood her reference to the ill-fated Scotch engagement. “I do not know, miss. One would assume that such a personality as Miss Little’s would be accustomed to these minor heartbreaks, yet there is always the chance that this was more significant to Miss Little than her usual attachment.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I only hope she doesn’t keep pining after him like a dog after scraps. See, I’m sure Mac was a charming bean, but one simply cannot abide with a man who dismisses the supposed love of his life to comfort the dog who has been biting at said love of life’s ankles. Then again, I may have a certain bias in the affair, but my point still stands.”

“Yes, miss. I doubt that the engagement would have lasted or become a happy marriage.”

“No. Bingo’s just not one for strong, silent types, eh? More into the whole blushing intellectual.”

“Very true, miss.”

Miss Wooster sipped again at her drink. “Would you like any more of this, Rosalyn? I don’t think I can finish the whole thing.”

“I would not like to – “

“Oh, just take it, my girl. It is no imposition.” Miss Wooster pressed the sweating glass into my hands. “Besides, I rather think you enjoy it.”

I smiled slightly, embarrassed. “I do, miss.”

Miss Wooster turned quickly away, then, and inspected her finger-nails. I may have imagined it, but I rather fancy her pale cheeks pinkened to a color similar to the strawberry milkshake I was holding.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had meant to include both the ice-cream and the dancing in this chapter, but then it got a little longer than I had anticipated and I figured I might as well separate them.  
> Tell me what you think about this story! Is there anything specific you'd like to see? I've already got several ideas but you can never have too many hc's. :)  
> \- M


	7. A Bad Day for a Wooster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Complications arise. Rosalyn is no longer trusted to chaperone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh 2 chapters in one day wow

“Oh, there you are, Bertie!” Miss Fotheringay-Phipps exclaimed, pushing her way through the crowd towards us. “I wondered where you’d got off to.”

“Has Bingo quite finished with that soup-strainer chap, do you think? I still want to go dancing.”

The two ladies glanced at their friend. “I couldn’t say,” said Miss Fotheringay-Phipps. “Maybe she’ll invite him to come with us?”

Miss Wooster fidgeted slightly. “Erm, not exactly the best spot for a chap of that sort, Barmy. I doubt that he’d approve of the whole atmos.”

“Oh?” Miss Fotheringay-Phipps appeared confused. “Why’s that? … – _Oh!_ Oh. Never-mind.” She grinned sheepishly.

“Quite.” Miss Wooster folded her arms. “Well, I think I’ll just biff off over there and tell her the sitch., and then we can go and noodle over to that club.”

“Alright.”

Miss Wooster moved through the crowd, which was slightly lessened now, and leaned against the counter beside Miss Little.

I had shifted myself back a small amount, melting somewhat into the fixtures, as is proper. It appeared that this move was successful; Miss Fotheringay-Phipps seemed to forget my existence in those few moments before Miss Wooster reappeared, _sans_ Miss Little, who, she explained, was intending to spend the remaining afternoon and evening with her newfound _beau_ and wished us have fun whilst dancing. When Miss Wooster asked me whether I wouldn’t mind sticking around a bit longer while they “cut a mean fox-trot,” Miss Fotheringay-Phipps startled and seemed to only just remember that I was there.

“I would not mind, miss,” I said, of course. One cannot give up one’s duties, after all.

“Spiffing! Let’s beetle over there, then.” Miss Wooster smiled quickly then turned away, Miss Fotheringay-Phipps and myself following.

Our voyage was cut short, however, when none other than Mrs. Gregson blocked our path, emerging onto the sidewalk from a dress-maker’s shop.

“Bertie!” she barked, and the addressed blanched quickly.

“Oh, ah, what-ho, Aunt Agatha!”

Mrs. Gregson shot a venomous glare at Miss Fotheringay-Phipps, who was staring wide-eyed at the scene unfolding before her.

“I trust,” Mrs. Gregson spat out, “that you are not planning on participating in any untoward activities, my dear imbecilic neice?”

Miss Wooster cast a helpless look at Miss Fotheringay-Phipps. “No, no, not at all! We were just – just – about to go…uh –” She faltered.

“Miss Wooster,” I supplied, “and Miss Fotheringay-Phipps were intending to purchase hats, madam.”

Miss Wooster seemed to sway where she stood. “Yes! Hats!” she cried, relieved. “I saw the most corking specimen in a shop window the other day and I simply _had_ to show Barmy before it was snatched up.”

Mrs. Gregson’s face remained stony. “Is it customary for you to purchase hats whilst dressed like a member of the chorus-line?”

“Oh, ah, eh? This old thing? I was just – just trying it on, see.”

“Trying it on?”

“They are modeling, madam,” I put in quickly. “For a dress-shop. The owner wished to increase the sales of certain items. Miss Wooster and Miss Fotheringay-Phipps agreed to wear said items in public in return for discounts on their next purchases.”

Mrs. Gregson turned her sharp gaze onto me. “Is that so, Rosalyn?”

“Yes, madam.”

“And you were with them while they conducted this – _deal?_ ”

“Yes, madam.”

“Then I am very disappointed in you, Rosalyn. I trusted you to keep my neice from bandying her name and you have allowed her to recklessly display herself about town in such a way. I am afraid,” she added, turning to Miss Wooster, “that you are no longer allowed to be chaperoned by Rosalyn. Now, I want you to head back to your flat and put on something decent. I will be arriving shortly after you, so don’t delay.”

“Yes, Aunt Agatha,” Miss Wooster mumbled, drooping.

Mrs. Gregson then bustled past us down the street.

Miss Fotheringay-Phipps pulled nervously at her fingers. “Terribly sorry about that, old thing. I guess the dancing’ll have to wait, eh?”

Miss Wooster sighed. “Yes, I suppose. Can’t be helped, though – Aunt Agatha’s a tyrant. Sorry you had to witness that.”

“It’s alright. My Aunt gets like that sometimes, too. I say, I should probably push off. I don’t want you to get into more trouble.”

Miss Wooster smiled weakly at her friend. “Thanks ever so much, Barmy. I’ll see you around, sometime?”

“Of course,” Miss Fotheringay-Phipps assured, then struck off down the pavement.

Once we were alone, Miss Wooster turned on me sharply. “Rosalyn you ass!” she hissed. “What did you mean by telling my Aunt we were modeling? Now she thinks I’m some sort of tart who goes around selling herself for ribbons!”

I looked around, making sure our disagreement was not being viewed by all and sundry. “I had intended, miss,” I said icily, “to dissuade Mrs. Gregson from the idea that you actually owned such garments, an idea which she would have found much less favourable than the one she is possessed of now. I apologize if I have done anything to upset you.”

“You bally well have!” Miss Wooster grumbled. She turned then and headed back up the street, her long legs carrying her swiftly. “I can’t believe you sometimes!”

We walked in silence for the remainder of the journey. When we arrived back at the flat, Miss Wooster shut herself in her bedroom and informed me that she had no need of my assistance currently and asked if I would please be so kind as to remain out of her sight for the foreseeable future? I retreated to the kitchen, fuming quietly.

Mrs. Gregson arrived minutes after Miss Wooster and myself. I helped her out of her light summer-coat and hat, then began preparing tea. I heard Mrs. Gregson knocking repeatedly on Miss Wooster’s door.

“Bertie, come out of there! This is no time for sulking. I need to discuss things with you so you know what it is you’re allowed to do.”

Miss Wooster remained silent.

I served Mrs. Gregson her tea, and the action seemed to make her momentarily forget her anger at me. A watery sigh emanating from Miss Wooster’s bedroom, however, made her set her teacup down with a clack and call to me.

“Yes, madam?”

“Rosalyn, I wish to have a word with you.”

I felt my heart sink within my breast. “Indeed, madam? May I be of any assistance?”

“You’ve been of enough assistance recently, Rosalyn. Sit down. I don’t want you looming over me like that. Now, I need you to understand that you have been placed in a position of responsibility regarding Miss Wooster. It is you who are supposed to protect her when she is away from her family and it is you who are supposed to help her to maintain a respectable name for herself so that she does not –“ Mrs. Gregson faltered, voice choking up. “So that she does not ruin her chances at a happy future for herself. I need you to understand this, Rosalyn.”

“Yes, madam.”

Mrs. Gregson sighed and spoke quietly. “I worry about her, constantly. She does not know what is good for her. I know you care for her, as well – you needn’t be ashamed of the fact – so I know you can understand my position. I simply cannot have her destroying her life, especially so unwittingly. You know what is proper for a young lady, Rosalyn. Miss Wooster needs you to be her guide in this. She needs you to help her – _I_ need you to help her. Dahlia and I, we’ve put together a list of suitors for Bertie. She’s not going to like it, but I need you to help her through this. Marriage is a wonderful thing, even if she doesn’t understand that, yet. In the next few days I’m going to start introducing Bertie to these young men, but I need her to act becomingly. I know that you can make her sympathetic to this endeavor. Can I trust you to help us – to help Miss Wooster?”

I looked at Mrs. Gregson. Her face was ever so sincere.

“Yes, madam,” I said. “I will help Miss Wooster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ho ho look at that horrible mess they're in.


	8. Miss Wooster's First Suitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins. Florence Craye pays a visit to the Wooster abode with Aunt Agatha stepping in as chaperone. Rosalyn is somewhat jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See if you can catch the Psmith reference. It's not very subtle.

Overall, I believe that Miss Wooster was charming throughout the affair, albeit in her bumbling, vacant way. She does not often intend this, but her simple ingénue manner around handsome men seems to be exactly what they find attractive. Perhaps that is why Miss Wooster found the ordeal so unpleasant in the end.

He had arrived a quarter of an hour later than he was expected and Miss Wooster sat on the settee twiddling her fingers absentmindedly whilst she waited. Mrs. Gregson was acting as chaperone. When the young man finally deigned to arrive, I opened the door and let him in, announcing a Mr. Florence Craye. He was a tall, willowy individual with bright blond hair and a noble countenance. Miss Wooster and I had had the chance to make his acquaintance previously, and I found that my former dislike lessened not at all upon finding he was one of the “suitable young gentlemen” Mrs. Gregson had selected.

Miss Wooster, to her credit, straightened herself and smiled. I removed myself to the kitchen to begin preparing tea.

“Good afternoon,” the young gentleman said. “Bertie—Mrs. Gregson.”

“Ah, Florence, darling, do sit down,” Mrs. Gregson cooed. “We are so pleased you could find the time to join us.”

“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Miss Wooster added. If her voice was a touch more bland than was usual, I do believe I was the only one who could notice.

“How was your literary meeting, my dear?”

“Oh, it was great fun, Mrs. Gregson, but terribly long-winded. They’re thinking of adding a new clause to the group’s constitution, which would let the members, instead of the board, vote on which books to include in that month’s recommendations column. I was one of the primary instigators,” he added importantly.

“Lovely, lovely. Bertie, here, has several friends in literary circles, too.”

“I do? Ow! Yes, I do! It’s um—what were their names again?”

“That _interesting_ fellow in New York? I believe his name was Todd.”

“O-oh, Rocky! Yes. He’s a real brick, Rocky. I wonder if you’ve ever read his poems, Florence?”

“If I have I can’t recall. What has he written? Is he a modernist?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Miss Wooster said, “but he’s a real corker with words. Penned something about being today and not tomorrow and all that rot. Not much of one for clothes, though.”

There was a tense pause.

“Oh?” Mr. Craye uttered delicately. “How do you mean?”

“Just that he hardly ever gets out of his pajamas. I say, I’ve seen that man crawl out of bed at two in the afternoon and then simply put on a sweater! Poor Rosalyn just about fainted.”

“How very… _unique_ of him.”

At this point, I re-entered the room with the tea-things, breaking up what may have become a brawl between Mrs. Gregson and Miss Wooster, the former of which was glaring at the latter with such venom that I wondered Miss Wooster did not clutch her breast and pass away. As it was, Miss Wooster spotted me and relief flooded her features.

“Oh, wonderful! Would you like a spot of tea, Florence? Aunt Agatha?”

I handed the teacups to their respective recipients.

Miss Wooster sipped at hers, then attempted to change the subject. “Speaking of friends, I got a letter the other day from Ginger. You know Ginger, don’t you, Florence? Pale sort of filly with pointed elbows and legs too long for her? Looks charming in riding breeches but awful in a swim-suit?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Craye over his teacup. “I know Ginger. I was engaged to her, once, if you recall.”

Miss Wooster, conscious now to the fact that she had touched upon a nerve, smiled sheepishly. “Ah. Yes, well. Love’s tides, what?”

“Quite. You said something about a letter?”

“Oh! Yes. See, Ginger ran away with this secretary chap and they biffed off to Italy for their honeymoon—but guess who they ran into?”

“Who?”

“Gussie and Matthias!”

“Who?”

“You don’t know them? Oh, well, Gussie’s another pal of mine and Matthias is her fiancé.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Gregson interrupted with a withering glance at Miss Wooster. “Florence might like to tell us a bit about his upcoming book.”

“You’re writing another one?” My sympathies were with Miss Wooster on this point.

“I don’t know, yet. I’ve thought about it, but there’s always the issue of how much societal criticism one can put into a children’s book without it becoming droll.”

“Societal criticism? What of?” Mrs. Gregson inquired politely.

Mr. Craye evidently felt, on this point, similar to Sherlock Holmes about his work. At Mrs. Gregson’s prompting, he began rattling off myriad reasons why, to his knowledge, the practice of regulating prices was something to be desired in this our fair country. He informed Miss Wooster how, over a holiday, he had become acquainted with an interesting young gentleman who was very favourable towards the cause of socialism. The young gentleman, it was told, had persuaded Mr. Craye towards his cause and the two had parted on the best of terms—as, Mr. Craye put it, “comrades.”

Miss Wooster valiantly attempted to follow along with this half-soliloquy, but her knowledge on the topic of government structures is somewhat lacking. She put in an “Oh?” and an “Ah.” every third sentence or so, yet it was obvious that she was grasping only the blunt points of Mr. Craye’s speech.

“Do you understand, then, the tenets of socialism, Bertie?” Mr. Craye asked at the conclusion of his tirade. “It is of the utmost importance that you do. I shan’t think I could live with myself if I had let you get away without true knowledge of the world.”

“Oh, ah—well, that is to say—I rather think I do?”

Mr. Craye sighed. “Bertie, Bertie, you have so much potential; it nearly makes me weep. There is so much that I could do with you, if only given the time.”

“Oh, ah, yes, rather.”

“I’ve always thought that is the way with spouses,” Mrs. Gregson put in. “There is quite a gratuitous amount of time spent together and each one ends up understanding the other so well, in the end. It is a beautiful prospect, is it not, Florence?”

“It is, Mrs. Gregson. I quite agree.”

Miss Wooster ducked her head and swallowed down the rest of her tea.

 

~

 

It was only after I had closed the door on Mrs. Gregson for the evening that Miss Wooster allowed herself to unbutton.

“Rosalyn!” she cried, collapsing on the settee. “I apologize for being rotten to you earlier! I take back all I said—you’re the most delightful person I have left to me, anymore!”

“Thank you, miss,” I said, setting beside her a small whiskey and soda. (Mrs. Gregson had searched the flat for any alcohol before she left, though she neglected to search in _all_ of the cupboards.)

Miss Wooster, agog, grasped at the drink like a dying man to a priest’s hand. “Rosalyn, you utter brick. You wonderful, beautiful, amazing person. How did you hide it?”

“Mrs. Gregson, miss, does not know about the cupboards in my room. I assumed it might be prudent to relocate several items before she began her search.”

“It bally well _was_. Good Lord,” Miss Wooster moaned, downing the whiskey and soda quickly. “I could kiss you right now.”

“Thank you, miss,” I said. It was not her fault that I was so besotted.

Miss Wooster stretched herself, then sighed. “Do you think Florence’ll pop the question?”

“It seems likely, miss.”

She sighed again. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it. I don’t fancy you’ve got any more of that stuff tucked away?” She wiggled her glass meaningfully.

“I shall fetch the bottle, miss.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't read the bits with Florence in ages so if she's a bit ooc, I apologize. I mostly wanted a way for Aunt Agatha to have a quick marriageable young man up her sleeve.  
> Also, Florence is both a man's and a woman's name, so that's why it isn't changed.  
> Thanks for reading!  
> \- M  
> P.S. Woohoo for Rosalyn :D


	9. Terrible Suitor Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt Agatha hands the reins over to Aunt Dahlia, who brings over a not-so-nice young man. Bertie endures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for more Psmith references! I couldn't help myself. Also, if the cricket descriptions sound off at all, that's because, as a true American, I have never actually seen a cricket game and all I know is from the bits in books that I've read.  
> N.B. 'Rhys' is pronounced like 'rice', by the way

“Rosalyn, you may now call me Helen.”

“Miss?”

Miss Wooster waved the telegrams I had placed on her tea-tray.

“Apparently I’m engaged to Florence, now, but Aunt A. hasn’t informed Aunt D. of the proceedings. Aunt D., then, is coming up to try her hand at a bit of chaperoning—taking the torch, if you will—without the knowledge that I am otherwise spoken for. It all makes me feel a bally—well, you know what I mean.”

“Quite, miss. Has Mrs. Travers indicated when she is supposed to arrive?”

“She only said to expect her for luncheon.”

“Very good, miss. Shall I lay out our carnation dress with the silver cardigan?”

“Oh, yes, might as well. Is that one of the new ones?”

“Yes, miss. They arrived early this morning.”

Miss Wooster had agreed to have me exchange her rather more promiscuous dresses for ones of a similar style, yet reaching modestly to the ankles. I assisted her into the garment and found myself pleased that I selected a style which suited her figure so admirably. One can take pride in one’s work, after all.

“Oh, jolly good show, Rosalyn!” Miss Wooster twirled experimentally before the mirror. “These aren’t half bad!”

“Thank you, miss.”

She grinned. “I say, I rather _look_ like that Helen beazel, now, too!”

“Indeed, miss,” I said, and I meant it.

Miss Wooster spent the morning engaged in a mystery novel with a cup of tea by her elbow, and I spent it preparing a neat luncheon for Mrs. Travers and the inevitable gentleman guest. When they arrived, at about half past noon, I was just plating the zucchini.

“Good afternoon, Rosalyn,” Mrs. Travers greeted me pleasantly. Behind her stood an amicable looking young man with a chestnut mustache and a tie-knot that was rather too small. He greeted me, as well, and I took their summer-coats and hats and departed to finish lunch preparation.

“Hello, Bertie, dear!” Mrs. Travers cried. “I have with me a young friend of mine. His name is Charlie Rhys, and he’s the son of the vicar’s cousin down in Market Snodsbury. He tells me he’s very fond of cricket.”

“Oh?” Miss Wooster said. “How do you do? I know several chaps who’ve gone in for cricket, though I never did much of it myself,” she added with a light-hearted chuckle. “Won’t you sit down? I believe Rosalyn’s got lunch just about ready.”

Indeed I did. Emerging from the kitchen, I began serving a light soup to the ladies and gentleman. I noticed, again, the young man’s tie and it irked me no small amount.

“So, Charlie,” Mrs. Travers began. “Tell Bertie about that game you played last week-end—the one where you scored a century.”

Mr. Rhys, who had been mid-sip of his soup, quickly set his spoon down and wiped his lips with his napkin. “Ah, yes. Well, you see, I thought the whole game would be a dud, given that it had rained the previous afternoon and the wicket was still damp. Plus, the other team had pulled out one of their champion bowlers, this chap called Appleby, and he’s the best left-hander I’ve ever seen bowl a slow one. Anyway, I was up third on the list to bat and by then the sun had come out, but not much. Our team had about seventy-three for four, then, and Appleby was smiling at me with this damned smug expression on his face, so of course I had to show him what for, the little blighter. Anyway, he tosses me a neat half-volley, probably thinking I’m going to be as easy as the other two were, and I whack it up so far it knocks into this farmer’s horse-cart passing by on the road. Then, of course,” he chuckled, “we had to go chase the cart down. It took nearly a quarter-of-an-hour, all told. After that, Appleby knew who I was and wasn’t going to give me anything easy. He started going at it all fast and hard—or at least as fast as a slow-bowler can go, ha-ha—and I dare say he missed my one leg-stump by a coat of varnish. Anyway, he kept at it but I kept harder and in the end I’d scored one-hundred and three runs. Appleby was furious but the team was rioting. I got carried back to the pavilion on their shoulders.”

Mr. Rhys finished his tale with a smug smile, evidently pleased with his accomplishments. Miss Wooster had listened with a faintly pleasant expression, but one which appeared bilious to anyone who knew her.

“Oofy Prosser said she knows this one chap who hit four-hundred some points in a village match,” Miss Wooster commented. “I think his name was Jackson.”

Mrs. Travers’s eye twitched somewhat. Mr. Rhys’s color heightened.

“Is that so?” he said.

“Oh, yes. Oofy was barmy about him for a month, so she watched all his games and found out his school-scores and things like that. Sounds like he was a right choice for England, though I don’t think he ever made it.”

“He’s not a professional?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. Oofy said his brother was, though. Or maybe cousin?”

“Hm,” Mr. Rhys grunted. “Probably Mike Jackson. I’ve seen him play.”

“Oh, have you?” Miss Wooster sipped delicately at her soup. “Is he any good?”

“I should say so. The man can’t miss.”

Miss Wooster opened her mouth to say something more, but Mrs. Travers cut her off.

“Charlie, dear, didn’t you also say you liked golf?” she prompted.

Mr. Rhys looked up from his soup. “Oh, no. Beastly sport, golf. Can’t stand it.”

“You don’t like golf?” Miss Wooster asked incredulously.

“What, and you do?”

“Rather! Golf’s a beautiful sport, and you don’t have to bother yourself with dashing all over the field like with tennis. One can stop and smell the roses, what?”

“Tsk,” Mr. Rhys tutted. “That’s what every woman says. They simply can’t keep up with us men, so they criticize us.”

As I took the soup-bowls and began serving the next course, I noticed Mrs. Travers’s shoulders wilt. Miss Wooster simply smiled tightly and changed the subject.

“Have you seen the latest John Barrymore film, Mr. Rhys?”

“Who?”

 

~

 

“Bertie, I must apologize. I had no idea Charlie was as beastly as all that, my dear girl. I’d never have brought him over here if I’d known.”

Mrs. Travers was kneading her brow, seated beside Miss Wooster in an armchair. She had seen Mr. Rhys off on his train to Liverpool to see his sister’s newest child and had rushed back as soon as possible to offer Miss Wooster her apologies. Miss Wooster accepted them with her customary good spirit but declared that she had a right to veto any potential suitor who said golf wasn’t a good sport.

“Yes, he was rather beastly about it, wasn’t he?”

“I say, Aunt Dahlia, ‘beastly’ is about as tame as you could get when describing that foul poop! I wonder his sister hasn’t clubbed him over the head yet.”

Mrs. Travers chuckled. “She might have, you never know.”

“That would honestly brighten my entire month, if she had. Oh, Rosalyn!”

I stepped out of the kitchen. “Yes, miss?”

“Could you fetch me a little—you know—and one for Aunt Dahlia, too?”

“Yes, miss. One moment, miss.”

Miss Wooster had finished off the half-bottle of whiskey the previous night, so I opened a new one and poured out two glasses, bringing with me the syphon on the tray.

“Here you are, miss—madam.”

“Thank you, Rosalyn,” Mrs. Travers said. “But Bertie, Agatha told me she—“

Miss Wooster winked.

“A-ah.” Mrs. Travers nodded sagaciously. “I see. Very well, I won’t tell her. You’re something, though, Bertie, my girl.”

Miss Wooster merely laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://proxy.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=http%3A%2F%2Fhouseoffraser.scene7.com%2Fis%2Fimage%2FHOF%2FI_183398768_00_20140422&f=1) is what Bertie's new dresses look like, more or less. I imagined something also similar to those dresses that Angela wore in the Jeeves and Wooster show.


	10. Midnight, the Stars, and You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie, nearly snapping with compulsory heterosexuality, sneaks out and takes Rosalyn to a bohemian club with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack so sorry for the long wait! Life, you know. It happens.

I awoke several minutes past one a.m. to the scrape of a window being pushed up. Thoughts of burglars being foremost in my mind, I wrapped myself in my robe and grasped at the nearest weapons I could find: a heavy tome by my bedside and a bread knife from the kitchen. I checked first the windows in the sitting room. There was nothing there. I then moved towards Miss Wooster’s room.

I opened her door quietly, not wishing to disturb her or the possible burglars. I noticed she was not in her bed and immediately felt a pang of fear. Suppose they had snatched Miss Wooster up along with her trinkets! Oh, the horrors my mind supplied at that moment were sufficient for several weeks’ nightmares.

The window, I might add, was open.

I immediately rushed towards it and, after ascertaining that no one was hiding just without, stuck my head through and peered around. I saw a flash of dark fabric as someone rushed down the fire escape. Without thinking, I wrapped my robe tighter around myself and climbed out the window, scampering down the chilly metal staircase.

It is difficult to remain silent in such circumstances and the person I was pursuing had their senses heightened in fear of discovery. Very soon I saw them glance over their shoulder. I was surprised, though, when they paused.

“Rosalyn!” Miss Wooster hissed. “Is that you?”

I stopped and peered through the darkness. “Miss Wooster?”

“Yes, it’s me! Good Lord, Rosalyn, I thought you were a burglar!”

“I confess that is what I thought of you, as well, miss.”

“Hah! Fancy that, eh? Well, anyhow, what are you doing climbing about on fire escapes at this time of night? Don’t you sleep?” Miss Wooster leaned her elbow jauntily against the railing.

“I heard the window raise, miss. I assume that was your work?”

Miss Wooster chuckled sheepishly. “Ah, yes, that. Sorry to have woken you.”

“It is of no concern, miss. Might I ask why you yourself are out at this hour?”

“I—um, actually, I do mind, Rosalyn, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Very good, miss.”

“I’m not going to meet up with some axe-murderer, though, in case you were worrying,” she added hastily.

“Very good, miss.”

I was intending to head back up the staircase, then. The night was chilly and if Miss Wooster was not intending to inform me of her destination, there was very little I could accomplish by remaining out here. One could very easily guess what she wished to do. I had just turned to leave when her voice called me back.

“I say, Rosalyn!” Miss Wooster whispered up to me. “Sorry, but would you mind coming with me?”

“I beg your pardon, miss?”

She fidgeted. “It’s just that—well—I rather think I’d enjoy it more if I had a friendly face with me, what?”

“I apologize, miss, but it is somewhat difficult to form a decision when I do not know to where you are heading.”

“Oh. Right. Well, if you must know, I was planning on visiting a club.”

“A club, miss?”

“Yes, Rosalyn, a club.”

Understanding that she was unwilling to release any more information, I said, “Very good, miss,” and began to head back up the stairs.

“Rosalyn, wait!” Miss Wooster hurried after me.

“Miss?”

“What—where are you going? Is that a no?”

I brandished the weapons I had carried with me. “I am merely returning these items to the flat, miss. While a book may be overlooked, most clubs do not approve of their guests carrying knives. I would also prefer to change out of my nightclothes, if you do not mind. I will only be a moment, miss.”

“Oh,” Miss Wooster chuckled, “yes, of course. Go on, then. I’ll wait.” She let out a shaky breath, then, and looked up towards the stars.

I returned said items to the flat and changed quickly, making sure to take a key to the flat and to shut the window behind me. Now that both of us were made aware of the night’s activities, there was little reason to avoid the front door. I rejoined Miss Wooster after some fifteen minutes and followed as she resumed her walk down the fire escape.

“I assume you’re wondering why I chose this hour to leave and why I left via the window,” she began as we strolled on the pavement. “Instead of the more pragmatic choice of the front door at two o’clock in the afternoon.”

I glanced at her sideways. “The thought had crossed my mind, miss.”

“Well, the situation’s this—viz. that I simply couldn’t do what I am planning to do in the bright innocent hours of the daylight and I hadn’t thought originally to include you in this, thus the window. Also,” she added after taking a deep breath, “I doubt my Aunts would approve.”

“Indeed, miss?”

“Indeed.”

Several minutes passed in silence.

Then, she said, “Here, watch your step,” and grabbed my elbow. We turned down a small street, one that might have been called an alley except for its remarkably well-kept appearance. Miss Wooster walked past three doors and paused before the forth, a short, wide, heavily-set door with a cold iron handle. Glancing quickly at me, she then knocked upon it.

Shuffling noises were heard from within. The door opened an inch.

“Hullo, Dorothy!” Miss Wooster waved cheerily.

The door opened wider, showing a petite woman with curly red hair chopped at her earlobes.

“Bertie!” the woman cried. “It’s been ages! Oh—and you’ve brought a guest. Well done, Bertie, well done.” She then winked exaggeratedly at Miss Wooster, who was rapidly flushing.

“Oh, well, you know,” Miss Wooster gargled. “We ran into each other.”

Dorothy then looked at me more fully and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Well, I say!”

“Pardon?”

“I didn’t know you knew Rosalyn!”

Miss Wooster stared at me. It was true that I knew Dorothy; she owned a tea-shop several streets away from Miss Wooster’s flat that I enjoyed visiting on some of my evenings off. I had not, however, known that Dorothy ran a club of the sort that Miss Wooster would attend.

“She comes to my shop,” Dorothy explained, smiling at me. “Chai and a cinnamon bun, right?”

“Yes, miss,” I said. I had always been rather friendly with Dorothy and was flattered that she remembered me so well.

Miss Wooster shrugged. “Well, I suppose that makes _that_ easier. Push over and let us in, though; it’s freezing out here.”

“Oh! Right.”

Dorothy moved away and we followed her through the stooping doorway and down a narrow, warped hall that opened out into a sort of sitting area. There were green-cushioned armchairs and a chaise arranged around several low end-tables and the far side of the room had been cleared for dancing. A gramophone was set up on one of the tables and was spinning an upbeat jazz record; several women were dancing to it.

I felt at once claustrophobic and at ease. Miss Wooster followed Dorothy to the bar and downed a brandy and soda; the woman reclining on the chaise lifted the hem of her dress to rub at her flushed thigh; cigarette ends burned discarded in overflowing ashtrays. Overall the atmosphere was strangely foreign yet familiar. I had not, it might be mentioned, ever been to one of these bohemian clubs before.

It was not long before I was pulled from my station by the wall. Dorothy left Miss Wooster at the bar and dragged me by the wrist towards an empty pair of armchairs.

“Rosalyn, you simply _must_ tell me what you’re doing here! I had no _idea_ you were of that sort. Fancy seeing _you_ , of all people! Is Bertie one of your _friends_?”

I sat down across from her, sinking low on the cushion. “I am Miss Wooster’s maidservant,” I explained. “It is rather a long story as to why I’m here.”

“Oh, well, it can wait, then, can’t it? Here, let me get you a drink.”

She then bustled off and fetched me a glass of champagne. “A celebration!” she declared. “To finding out Rosalyn’s a bohemian!”

Several women—including, to my embarrassment, Miss Wooster—raised their glasses with muted smiles and said, “Here, here!”

I tried to hide my blushing cheeks behind my champagne. Dorothy, however, did not seem inclined to let me go quite so easily. She pulled a short blonde woman over, one who appeared quite intoxicated and loose, and set the woman on the arm of my chair.

“Rosalyn, meet Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn, Rosalyn. Now, go get friendly!” She patted Gwendolyn on the shoulder and hurried off.

Gwendolyn lurched forwards and I had to catch her from falling across me with a hand on her ribcage.

“Careful,” I said. She giggled.

“Well, aren’t you a sweetheart,” she drawled. “Mind if I sit in your lap?”

Without waiting for a response, she then poured herself onto my legs and wrapped her curved arms around my neck. I was a little uncomfortable, but resolved to make do. There are not very many circumstances in which one finds a pretty girl all but tossing herself at one, and there are even fewer in which one feels inclined to refuse such advances.

“Ro—sa—lyn,” she breathed. Her breath smelt strongly of sherry. “Do you mind if I call you Rosie? Rosie-Posie Rosie-lyn…” She giggled again and hid her face in my neck.

I awkwardly wrapped my arms about her person and tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone over her shoulder. I could see Miss Wooster out of the tail of my eye watching me and found myself caught between wishing for her to turn away and wishing for her to keep staring. Gwendolyn hiccoughed and began lolling in my arms.

Miss Wooster slid off her bar stool and quickly made her way over to me. She reached under Gwendolyn’s shoulders and lifted her up unsteadily, setting her down again in a neighboring armchair. I sat frozen, blushing near painfully scarlet, and smoothed my skirts over my knees.

“There, there,” Miss Wooster patted Gwendolyn on the shoulder, the latter having drooped significantly. “Why don’t you lie back and have a rest, then, my girl?”

Gwendolyn sighed. “Yes,” she said. “A rest.” She then knocked her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. Evidently the sherry had taken its toll.

Miss Wooster fiddled self-consciously with her hair, which was down and draped over her one shoulder. “Sorry if I interrupted, it’s just—you seemed a little put-out, is all. I mean—I did rather ask you to come here, and it wasn’t very white of me to simply leave you alone with a— _girl_ in your lap, eh?” She chewed at her lip. “That is, unless you _wanted_ her there…?”

I swallowed. Gwendolyn was not the person I wanted sitting on me. “No, miss. Thank you, miss.”

Miss Wooster grinned shyly. “Oh, there’s no need for that here, Rosalyn. How much more bohemian can you get?”

“Indeed, miss.”

The record skipped, then fizzled out. Someone came over and flipped it. Miss Wooster stuck her hand out a trifle abruptly, and tossed me a sparkling grin.

“Care to dance?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of this chapter is taken from the song _Midnight, the Stars, and You_ by Al Bowlly. It's a real bangin hit. I recommend it.  
>  \- M


	11. Nighttime Excitement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie and Rosalyn go a-clubbing. Not all is sunshine and roses.

Despite the knowledge that almost anything occurring in this place would not reach the light of day, I still felt the need to maintain my position. Dorothy knew of my place as Miss Wooster’s maidservant; I did not wish for her to think me so flippant as to disregard all propriety at the soonest possible moment. One must think of one’s reputation, after all. Still, I was sorely tempted to agree.

“No, thank you, miss.”

Miss Wooster’s smile flickered, but remained steadfast. “Very well. Just thought I’d ask, you know.” She sat down on the edge of the end-table by my chair. “See, I don’t usually come here—that is, I usually go to some other club—but since my friends know I’m being chaperoned and since they have the filter of an opened fire-hydrant, I figured it’d be better to give those chumps a miss, eh?” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I don’t actually know anyone here besides Dorothy, though. That’s why I asked you to come.”

“Indeed, miss?” I was flattered she thought my presence at all necessary in one of these clubs, where one could very easily lose themselves in the charm of a stranger. My treacherous heart began fluttering in the hope that she, perhaps, favored me over those anonymous lovers which were so plentiful here. I watched her slender fingers twiddle themselves over her knees.

“Oh, of course!” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re a dashed good conversational partner, Rosalyn. I should think you’d know that.”

“One does not wish to assume, miss.”

She chuckled. “It’s not an assumption if I’ve told you plain as day multiple times.”

I hid a small smile. “Thank you, miss.”

She glanced at me and smiled, then raised her hand in an aborted gesture that she smoothed out by tucking her hair behind her ear.

We sat thus in conversation for about an hour or so, Miss Wooster supplying herself with several other drinks and, once, persuading me to accept a second glass of champagne. I normally do not prefer to keep such late hours, despite the frequent necessity of it due to Miss Wooster’s own preferences, yet I found myself enjoying this quiet, comfortable frivolity. It was not often that I was able to spend unabashed time with my female peers and I found it surprisingly pleasant.

After I stifled one too many yawns, though, Miss Wooster giggled and said she thought it might be best if we headed back to the flat. We paid our respects to Dorothy and Miss Wooster left a bill for the drinks, then we emerged into the stinging chill of London in the wee hours of the morning. Miss Wooster had apparently neglected to bring with her a suitable covering beyond her thin sweater. As we walked, she huddled increasingly closer to me until I could not bear it and removed my own coat, draping it over her shoulders before she had time to resist.

“No, no, no, Rosalyn, I can’t take this,” she said. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

I stopped her from removing the coat and gave her a stern look. “No, miss. If you will permit the liberty, I believe it would be best for you to wear it.”

“But won’t you be cold?”

“Not very, miss. I am wearing a thicker sweater than you, besides.”

Miss Wooster glanced me over, then smiled bashfully. “So you are. Well, thank you very much, Rosalyn. Though, I must say, I don’t think I should be in the habit of wearing your clothing.” She stretched her arms out at full length in front of her, displaying how the sleeves rode up about halfway to her elbows.

I smiled. “Very true, miss.”

We then continued our hurried flutter along the pavement.

 

~

 

Thus began a rather exciting series of nighttime excursions. Throughout the day, Miss Wooster would be introduced to charming young gentlemen of the suitable variety, and throughout the night she would traipse around London, visiting her favorite bohemian clubs. More often than not, I joined her—though that was more out of a fear for my employer’s safety than through any desire of mine to be out at such hours of the night.

Indeed, such fear was not unreasonable. There were several occasions during which we were nearly caught by an acquaintance or an on-duty policeman going to and from Miss Wooster’s clubs. I can recall one instance in particular vividness.

We had just stepped out of a rather rowdy dance hall that was made claustrophobic through smoke and perfume through the back entrance, which lead out into a grassy area that connected several houses and shops, at a time which was rather closer to morning than night. A middle-aged woman was shushing a crying child and attempting to wipe the tears from his face with a handkerchief. As we bustled out of the club and onto the grass, the child startled quite violently at the sight of us and began howling afresh. The woman then turned towards us viciously and we had to exit the scene at an accelerated pace in order to avoid capture and incarceration, as the good woman was apparently very familiar with the patrons of said club and knew exactly, quote, what they fiddled with. Miss Wooster and I did not remain long enough to hear the rest of her tirade.

Another occasion was rather more unsettling than humorous. In fact, even to recall it rekindles the sharp anxiety of the moment. It began as such:

Miss Wooster and I had just dropped off of the fire escape onto the pavement and were making our way across the street. Several cars passed slowly and we had to weave our way between them before reaching the other side. This action proved crucial, because it hindered us from noticing another nighttime wanderer crossing said street and meant that, when we had again started our trek on the sidewalk, Miss Wooster walked straight into this young man’s dark wool-clad chest.

“Oh! I beg your pardon,” Miss Wooster blurted out, stumbling backwards and reaching for my arm.

The young man smiled blandly and began to apologize himself, before squinting and causing his expression to melt into a frown.

“Bertie?” he mumbled, then repeated again louder, “Bertie? Is that you, my girl?”

It was none other than Mr. Paul Greene, who had dined with Miss Wooster that very night. Miss Wooster reeled at the recognition and I hastened to hold her up.

“Oh,” she gurgled. “Paul! Fancy—erm—fancy seeing you here, eh? Whatever are you up to, old bean?”

“I could ask you the same, Bertie. I thought your Aunt said you were being chaperoned?”

“I am! By Rosalyn, here, see?” She gestured animatedly towards myself. “We were just going out—ah—“

She floundered like the proverbial fish.

“Miss Wooster thought she saw a burglar, sir,” I put in. “We were just attempting to follow him in secrecy.”

Mr. Greene gawked. “A burglar?! Then I’ve come just in time! Think of the danger, Bertie! And you, Rosamund, to let her go out chasing burglars! For shame, Bertie, you could be killed! Here, let me escort you back to your flat.”

Miss Wooster let him. Upon our return, Mr. Greene gifted us with a long-winded and stern lecture on thinking of our safety, to which Miss Wooster replied with her own speech on patriotic duty and one’s family Code. Mr. Greene attempted to rebut her with pleas for her consideration of her wellbeing, yet Miss Wooster’s declarations of self-sacrifice and honourable risk effectively quieted him. By the time the poor man left, it was about the hour when Miss Wooster and I would have returned had we ever made it to the club.

Needless to say, Mr. Greene telegrammed to say they were not to be engaged upon the morrow. Miss Wooster could only barely bring herself to look disappointed in front of her Aunts.


	12. The Wooster Hand Is Finally Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie is proposed to, and she accepts.

It had been two weeks since Mrs. Gregson had first begun her chaperoning duties, and Miss Wooster was now simultaneously engaged to six (or, perhaps, seven, depending on the man’s mood) young gentlemen. She awoke each morning bleary eyed and downcast, regardless of whether or not she had been gallivanting during the wee hours. It pained me no small amount to see her thus. I began to formulate a plan.

I had just helped Miss Wooster into her afternoon bath and was listening to her invective against Mrs. Gregson and the latest suitor. She had just called them both rather unprintable things and leaned back with a huff against the porcelain.

“And none of them seem to care,” she continued, “that I’m engaged to multiple specimens! You’d think there would be at least _one_ jealous Johnny in the lot who couldn’t keep it up with a supposed loose woman like myself!”

“One does find it curious, miss,” I commented, arranging Miss Wooster’s towel and bathrobe.

“One bally well _does!_ My Aunts should be ashamed of themselves, engaging me to all these foul fellows like this. Have they no sense of decency, Rosalyn? I feel like King David, except as a woman!”

“Perhaps, miss, they believe that providing you with such a great number of choices will increase your tendency to accept one of the proposals.”

Miss Wooster pouted prettily. “Well, they’re dashed wrong, if that’s what they think! You can’t just hurl chaps at me and think I’ll pick one up! Tuh, Rosalyn, _tuh!_ ”

“Perhaps, miss,” I began tremulously, for I knew my following words would not abide well with Miss Wooster’s heart, “your Aunts would cease their activities were you to declare yourself engaged to a young gentleman and desirous of marrying him.”

“I have no doubt they would, Rosalyn, and that’s just the nub of it!”

“I was insinuating, miss, that it would be wise for you to follow such a course of action.”

And thus the other shoe was dropped.

“Rosalyn!” Miss Wooster gasped. “You traitor!”

“If you would allow me to explain myself, miss—“

“What else could you mean?!”

“I was not proposing, miss, that you should accept the proposal of one of the young suitors who has already declared himself engaged to you. Rather, I was suggesting that you should accept the proposal of someone who is willing to consider your marriage a marriage of convenience and who would not be averse to freeing you of all the obligations of a wife to a husband.”

Miss Wooster’s jaw raised itself somewhat. “Are you suggesting I find some chap to marry in the primrose fashion?”

“I believe the term is ‘lavender marriage,’ miss,” I corrected. “But yes.”

“Well, that would be all well and good,” Miss Wooster grumbled, “if I _knew_ of any chaps like that! All the bohemians I know are women!”

I paused for dramatic effect. “Perhaps a woman of your acquaintance would be willing to impersonate a man, miss, for the purposes of such a marriage.”

There was silence for a minute or so. Miss Wooster’s gaze fell from mine and landed blankly on the tiles of the floor. She stared mutely for a while, then blinked.

“Who do you suggest? I can’t just ask one of my pals to marry me. Unless—do you _know_ of anyone who’s—ah—that way inclined with regard to the Wooster person?”

I swallowed. “I do know of someone who would be willing to go through with the plan, miss.”

“Who?”

“Myself, miss.”

Miss Wooster goggled, then grinned dazzlingly. “Oh, Rosalyn, really? You’re not just—following through with some feudal spirit rot or something, are you? Do you really mean that? You’d do that for me?”

“Yes, miss,” I admitted, flushing.

“Oh, Rosalyn!” Miss Wooster purred, then grabbed my hand. “You absolute brick! I say, this bally well tops the business with the whiskey, my girl.”

“Thank you, miss.”

She then faltered and shyly averted her gaze somewhat. “Just to be clear, you were agreeing to the ‘impersonating a man’ piece and not the ‘that way inclined about the Wooster person’ piece? One has to be clear about these things, you know. Not that I would _mind_ if you _were_ —rather not!—just that I, ah, would rather like to know…?”

I reasoned to myself that there was not likely to occur a second chance to so easily declare my affections. I shook my head.

“I was agreeing to both of them, miss.”

Miss Wooster stared at me, her faint smile flickering through several emotions. Finally, she murmured, “I don’t know what to say, Rosalyn. This is bally well the first time a _beazel_ has proposed to me.”

“I believe, miss, there are typically two answers which one would make.”

Miss Wooster then started laughing—a small, slow giggle that then ballooned into delightful gasps for air between fits of mirth. Torn between shame and affection, I comforted myself with the knowledge that, at least, Miss Wooster had not yet let go of my hand.

“Oh, Rosalyn,” she gasped. “You ass!”

I did not know how to respond.

“You absolute ass!” she continued. “Of course I’ll accept! Are you blind?”

I could not help myself from smiling. “I do not believe so, miss.”

Miss Wooster calmed herself, then looked up at me with her beautiful face pink from laughter.

“Rosalyn, why do you think I asked you to chaperone me in the first place?”

“I assumed, miss, it was because you believed I would be more lenient than your Aunts with regard to your behavior.”

“Well, yes, that was part of it, but it wasn’t _all_. I thought that by exposing you to bohemian culture you might somehow find it in yourself to follow along in my improper footsteps and notice the bally interest I’ve had in you for _ages!_ ”

I blinked. “Miss?”

Miss Wooster gawked. “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice!”

“Notice what, miss?”

“Oh, good Lord,” she moaned, “you really are blind! Why do you think I always asked you to give me opinions on my brassiere or would lie around the flat with my skirt hiked up?”

“I assumed that was typical of your behavior, miss. And, with regard to your brassieres, that is, after all, part of my duties.”

“Fair enough. But _still_.” Miss Wooster smiled tenderly at me. “Do you know how much I wished you would dance with me? Every single time we went out I would ask you and you’d always say no. I was pining away until the day you’d finally crack.”

“I had not known that you wished to dance with me specifically, miss. I thought you simply wished to dance.”

Miss Wooster shook her head fondly. “Oh, well. I suppose my flirting could use some work, though it did pay off in the end.”

“Indeed, miss.”

“And you can dispense with all those ‘miss’s, Rosalyn, too, my girl. I don’t suppose there’s much use for propriety between fiancées.”

“Very good, m—.” I stopped myself.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to seal the deal, eh, Rosalyn?” She grinned suggestively.

I frowned, confused.

Miss Wooster huffed. “Oh, very well! I’ll do it!”

She tugged me down and I found my hands filled with a soft, wet, excited Miss Wooster who kissed me repeatedly, wetting the front of my uniform rather a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the end of the story!


	13. A Happy Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie tells her Aunts some rather important news. Aunt Agatha stays the night.

“Bertie, my sweet little ignoramus, you do realize that we are working together for your good?”

Mrs. Travers and Mrs. Gregson shot Miss Wooster the combined force of their disapproving looks. Miss Wooster withheld it, but appeared ready to wilt at any strong provocation.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Mrs. Gregson muttered.

“Oh, come now, Aunt Dahlia, of course I know that your intentions are—“

“It is not just our intentions, Bertie,” Mrs. Travers asserted. “How many times have we had this conversation?”

Miss Wooster considered. “I suppose this would be the fifth time? Or are we counting the time in the elevator, as well?”

Mrs. Travers sighed. “That’s not the point. The point is—“

“Bertie, we have heard from Mr. Greene,” Mrs. Gregson interrupted.

Miss Wooster put up a good show of ignorance; but it wasn’t good enough.

“Oh? Mr. Greene, eh?” She chuckled. “Wasn’t that the librarian? How is he, by the by? Has his brother finally gotten leave from the Navy?”

“Enough of this, Bertie. We know what you’ve been doing.”

“Well, you must elaborate a bit more, Aunt Agatha. I apologize for the defect, but then I never did claim to be a mind-reader.”

Mrs. Gregson’s eyes narrowed at Miss Wooster’s blatant cheek. She appeared ready to retaliate, but Mrs. Travers held her back with a somber glance.

“Bertie,” Mrs. Travers began. “This is very serious. We have given you quite enough options. If you still insist on disobeying us and gallavanting with those bohemians, then we only have one option left to us.”

Miss Wooster smiled tremulously. “And what might that be, dearest relation of mine?”

Mrs. Travers cleared her throat. “You will move to Scotland to stay with some of Agatha’s old friends. They are a very nice family—a good, _Christian_ family with morals—and they will take exemplary care of you, I’m sure. I know you will miss your friends and your outings, so I have arranged for your cousin Angelo to follow you there after a week or so, so that you may not be so lonely.”

I had been listening through the kitchen door, which was cracked open slightly. At this news, I nearly dropped the knife I was using to chop onions. I can only imagine how Miss Wooster’s face looked at that moment. When I next saw her, the peach-rose complexion had drained from her cheeks and her hands trembled in her lap.

“But I can’t go to Scotland!” she cried. “I can’t, Aunt Dahlia!”

“You really can, Bertie, and you really will.”

Miss Wooster shot a beseeching look at that marble Aunt of hers. “Aunt Agatha, please, I—please! I’m—I’m engaged!” She said those last two words with all the importance of dropping an anvil on someone’s head.

Mrs. Travers rolled her eyes. “We know that, you ass. Why do you think those chaps have been asking for your hand in the first place, but for our intervention?”

“No, I mean, I’m _really_ engaged. I’ve decided to marry—a chap.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Gregson uttered in disbelief. “And who is this lucky gentleman? I _hope_ for your sake, that he is one.”

Miss Wooster smiled in a practiced wistful manner. “His name is Reginald. Reginald Smith.” I had instructed Miss Wooster as to the faux details of our engagement. If this plan was to succeed, she needed to be coherent on all points.

“Reginald Smith?” Mrs. Travers repeated. “Who is he? What does he do?”

Miss Wooster had no difficulty recalling the fabricated tale I had taught her. She listed off several bland specifics about my masculine counterpart.

“He’s from America, Aunt Dahlia, that’s why you never met him; and I know you don’t like Americans all that much, Aunt Agatha, but Reginald’s father is the head of an oil company and he’s got more money than he can do anything with. I met him in New York last time I was there and I rather forgot about him until now what with all our—anyway, he telegrammed me a week ago and asked if I wouldn’t mind meeting up with him. I, of course, thought he was a spiffing old bean from the start and agreed to meet with him, but I told him we could only go out at night so it wouldn’t get in the way of the other—suitors.”

“Bertie, you insufferable buffoon, if we knew you had a _beux_ we wouldn’t have made you meet all these suitors!”

“Well, I didn’t know that _then_ , Aunt Dahlia!”

Mrs. Travers sighed. “Alright, alright. So, he’s a rich American, and you’ve been meeting him in the dead of night for the past week? Where have you been meeting? We don’t approve of bohemianism with men any more than with women, Bertie.”

“No, no, no, Aunt Dahlia, nothing like that! He’s fond of a spot of coffee in the wee hours and I found this café…” She continued with her explanation.

Mrs. Travers and Mrs. Gregson agreed that Reginald Smith sounded “nice enough,” but they were hesitant to give Miss Wooster their full blessing until they had at least met the man in person.

“Oh, of course!” Miss Wooster cried. “I should be sorry if you didn’t meet him, the angel. He’s the most gorgeous fellow, really, my dear relations, and I am certain you shall find him an absolute dish!”

“Now,” she continued, “I believe Rosalyn is nearly finished with dinner. Would you like to stay?”

 

~

 

The door had closed on Mrs. Travers, but Mrs. Gregson was determined to stay the night in the flat. Miss Wooster had dutifully lent her Aunt the use of the master bedroom, and was thus banished to the sofa. I, however, upon seeing Miss Wooster’s discomfort at being contorted upon such a too-short surface, offered her the use of my own bed. She seemed to take my words rather more outrageously than I had intended them.

“Oh, indeed?” she drawled, eyebrows raising. She checked to make sure Mrs. Gregson was without hearing distance, then added quietly, “I must say, Rosalyn, I had expected you to at least buy me a drink, first.”

The insinuation was, of course, unintended on my part. Miss Wooster, though, is in possession of a singularly improper mind and will take one’s meaning and twist it until she finds it suitably humorous. Thus is life, I suppose.

A faint pinkness colored my cheeks. “That was not my intended meaning. However,” I continued with a light smirk, “if you find it suitable, I would not be averse to the idea.”

Miss Wooster bit her lip and grinned. “Well, I certainly shan’t fit on the settee.”

With an interesting and unnameable feeling twisting my insides, I led Miss Wooster through the kitchen to my bedchambers. She had visited here previously; yet she had _visited_ and had not _stayed_ : to watch her, already in her dressing gown and bedclothes, sit down at the foot of the bed and spread her fingers across the plush quilt—she did not know this, but my grandmother had made it—was, to me, an electric coinciding of the old and the new—the known to possess and the wished for—the steady and the tremulous. Her presence nearly made my bedchambers feel foreign.

“Well, Rosalyn,” Miss Wooster began. “Which side of the bed do you usually sleep on? I do not wish to intrude.”

“Typically upon the left, but I am not overly particular. You may pick whichever side you wish.”

I began, then, somewhat shyly, to disrobe; I turned to the corner and made as quick a job of it as possible without fumbling or popping the buttons. I was startled when I felt a hand reach around and still my hands where they were upon my breast.

“I say, Rosalyn, old thing, you weren’t thinking of having me just sit there like some jelly while you go about struggling with your stockings and whatnot? Terribly un-ladlylike of me, letting you, what?”

I turned around and found Miss Wooster smiling at me in that charming way she has. The effect was doubled by the soft drowsyness present around her eyes and the loose way her hair was undone about her silk-clad shoulders. Her hands pried my own away gently and started undoing the buttons on the front of my dress.

“You don’t mind, do you, Rosalyn? It doesn’t chafe with your sensibilities terribly, eh?”

“I don’t mind,” I whispered. There was not much else I could say. To have a woman you have desired undressing you in your bedroom is something not many can withstand, and I have never claimed to be without weakness.

She finished with the buttons and slid the dress off of my shoulders, helping me to step out of the skirt. I shivered.

“Are you cold?” Miss Wooster murmured. A beautiful even flush had bloomed across her nose and cheeks.

I raised my slip and removed it. “No.”

Divesting me of my slip and stockings was quick work for Miss Wooster, who gazed up at me as she pulled the thin material off of my feet with darkened eyes. When she rose again, I lost no time in gripping her firmly on her narrow, rounded hips.

She bit her lip and grinned down at me. “I dare say you’re not in the mood for enlightening conversation much, are you?”

“Not at present, no,” I confessed. Her hands smoothed along my bare shoulders.

“Good, neither am I.” She kissed me and we tumbled to the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: still has unfinished fics  
> also me: writes like five new fics as a way to procrastinate
> 
> what can I say? thanks for reading :)  
> hmu with prompts and stuff [here](https://ask.fm/nimiumcaelo)  
> \- M


	14. In Which Anxiety Builds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelo comes to see Bertie. Rosalyn stresses over costume accuracy.

It was two days before anything else of note occurred. Mrs. Gregson had been staunchly refusing to leave the flat or allow Miss Wooster to leave, either; I was only allowed out to purchase groceries and run other errands. Tensions were mounting within our humble abode and I found myself wary of pulling Miss Wooster aside and speaking to her more frankly about our upcoming nuptials, despite the gnawing anxiety I felt about the subject. It is one thing to feel anxious about one’s own wedding: it is quite another to feel anxious about impersonating someone else’s.

Several times before a mirror I had practiced painting my face so it appeared more masculine. The act was not overly complicated, yet I still felt it inadequate to assert my role. Chiefly, I was concerned about my height, given that it was several inches shorter than Miss Wooster’s, who, while of above-average stature for a woman, was by no means tall for a man. I felt the disguise would be cheap and unconvincing; my inability to speak to Miss Wooster on the subject only increased my turmoil.

Thus it was into a pregnant and simmering atmosphere that Mr. Angelo Travers stepped on that Tuesday afternoon.

“Bertie!” he cried, upon spotting Miss Wooster languid upon the settee. “What’s all this about Scotland being off? Don’t tell me you’ve canceled? You have? Oh, but Bertie, I had Tuppy all excited! She wanted to try Scotch Pie.”

Miss Wooster rose and kissed her cousin upon the cheek. “I’m sorry, Angelo, but the trip’s all off. I’m engaged.”

“I know that, it’s all my mother can talk about these days. Isn’t that why you were going?”

Miss Wooster shot a glance at Mrs. Gregson, who was napping in an adjacent armchair. “Not exactly,” Miss Wooster admitted. “But those engagements are all off. This one’s still on.”

Mr. Travers sat down beside her on the settee. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, Bertie dear. Engagements? As in, plural?”

“It’s a long story. Perhaps on a dry winter night I shall recount the tale. For now, it is enough that you know that I have washed my hands of the matter and now shall share sweet nothings with only one person in particular.”

Mr. Travers smiled kindly. “And who might that be? Do I know him?”

“No,” Miss Wooster sighed. “He’s from America. His name is Reginald, Angelo, darling, and he’s a beaut.”

Mr. Travers chuckled. “Good, good. I’m glad you’ve finally caught the bug, Bertie. It’s been a long time coming.”

Miss Wooster smiled, half wooden, half flesh. “Yes, yes. Well, I’m having a dinner party on Thursday, if you’d like to come? I want to introduce everyone to Reginald before the wedding—mostly because Aunt Agatha would kill me if I didn’t, ha-ha.”

Mrs. Gregson snuffled and shifted in her sleep. Mr. Travers nodded knowingly.

“Well, then,” he said, “I shall wait on the edge of my seat.”

I shared the sentiment. On the day of Miss Wooster’s dinner party, my heart was racing and, for the first time in my life, I looked kindly on the possibility of sneaking out and taking the first train I could catch away. Miss Wooster, however, felt otherwise.

“I have every faith and confidence in you, Rosalyn,” she declared over her morning tea. “I can’t see why you’re nervous. We’ve practiced this all before and all you have to do is play the strong-and-silent type whilst I list off some sweet nothings about your personage. Simple stuff, really. Only trust the plan.”

One might wonder at this unnaturally calm disposition. I certainly did. It must be remembered, however, that this Miss Wooster was coming off of nearly a month’s deception of her Aunts in the matters amorous. This was, as she put it, ‘kid stuff,’ comparably.

It was an easy job of acquiring the male garments I would wear. They made a very small dent in Miss Little’s collection of lovers’ castaways. In fact, I had not had to alter them significantly at all. Apparently my height was not quite as unrealistic as I had feared; I had my choice of three different perfectly-sized waistcoats and trousers. (Miss Wooster found that fact more amusing than I believe Miss Little would have appreciated.)

Having dressed myself, I began working on my face. I had acquired a false beard and was busy adjusting it for accuracy when Miss Wooster came in.

“Good Lord!” she cried. “You look like Buster Keaton with a scruff!”

I felt I was some two or three inches too short for the comparison to be completely accurate, yet acquiesced the point.

“I simply pray it won’t dislodge on accident,” I admitted. “It’s frightfully delicate.”

“Ah, well, avoid any ponderous stroking and you’ll probably be fine, ha-ha. Do you need help with anything else? I think you look wonderful as is, though.”

I thanked her. “As long as you believe me believable, no.”

I strayed away from the mirrors that evening. Though Miss Wooster thought me reminiscent of Hollywood Stars, I myself felt akin to some lower form of goblin. The false beard scratched at my skin and stank of the glue resting beneath it; I had had to darken my eyebrows until they were nearly atrocious to behold; and, as a final point for contempt, the cravat I was forced to wear in a large bulge in order to draw attention away from other bulges nearby was of a tint I found hideous against my coloration. Add to that my nausea-inducing anxiety and you will have a vague portrait of how well I thought the dinner party would go.

Miss Wooster, however, managed to brighten my mood somewhat. In a fit of helpfulness, she had forbidden me to assist her in dressing, given that I was occupied dressing myself. When she emerged from her bedroom in a pale lemon colored gown that reached about midway down her calf, that striking misery which had been clouding over me throughout the day lessened. I found myself nearly able to look on the upcoming meal with excitement— _nearly_ being the key word.

You may wonder whether Mrs. Gregson had noticed our preparations. She did not; she couldn't have. This was due to the fact that Miss Wooster had cleared the flat of any and all Aunts that morning, giving her reason to be 'not wanting to spoil the surprise of her fiancé(e)’s identity.' Shockingly, her Aunts had agreed.

Thus it was an excited yet suspicious Mrs. Gregson who reentered the flat that evening around six o’clock.

“Bertie!” she snapped, looking around the flat for anything contemptible. “Don’t tell me you’ve ordered food from your club! What about Rosalyn? She’s a perfectly adequate cook, if not admirable.”

Miss Wooster’s smile stiffened slightly. “Rosalyn has Thursday nights off, if you recall, Aunt Agatha. She offered to stay in, but I insisted it was not necessary. And it isn’t. I’ve tasted the food and it’s wonderful.”

Mrs. Gregson frowned. “I’m glad you’re getting married, my girl. Without you to worry about my life shall extend thirty years.”

Miss Wooster smiled politely. “Would you care to sit down? I can bring you some tea.”

Some minutes later, Mrs. Travers arrived _avec fils_. When inquired as to the whereabouts of her husband, she admitted that he had a previous engagement with some antique dealer about a salt shaker from the 1600s. A faraway glimmer came into her eye whilst recounting the tale. She was evidently somewhat disappointed.

Mr. Travers clung to Miss Wooster's elbow and engaged her in conversation immediately. He was, of course, aware of the annoyance of elderly relatives crowded together. Miss Wooster appeared to appreciate his dedication.

Several more guests trickled in and sat down over the next few minutes. Up until this point, I had been tucked away in the kitchen, peeping through the keyhole, as it were. Now that everyone had arrived, Miss Wooster cleared her throat and rose.

“I want to thank you all for joining me here tonight,” she began. “It means worlds to me that you all care enough to wish to meet my soon-to-be other half. And you shall.” She knocked lightly on the kitchen door. “Reginald, you can come out, now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my word it has been so long I'm sorry. I'm a crappy scheduler, I know. XD  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. There might be another one coming up soon, there might not be. Stay tuned for more!  
> (also follow me on twitter guys @ComradeMJackson)


	15. Beards, Both Literally And Figuratively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone meets Reginald.

I stepped out. My breath was caught at the collective scrutiny. Panic began to rise—what if the disguise was not complete? I could feel poignantly every place where my form stuck out as innately feminine. What if they recognized me? Such a thought was nearly too terrible to entertain: not only would Miss Wooster be formally disgraced for such attempted deception, but I would certainly be out of a position and, most probably, all to come.

Mr. Travers was the first to break the silence.

“Well, hello,” he said, rising. “I’m Angelo, Bertie’s cousin. Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand, and I shook it.

The long hours practicing my masculine voice were now put to the test. “The pleasure is all mine,” I assured him. “I have heard much about you from Bertie.”

Life seemed to come back into the room. Mr. Travers smiled.

“Well, I’ve heard nothing about you. She is a masterful secret keeper, Bertie.”

I spared a glance at Miss Wooster. I was somewhat startled to find such an odd expression on her face. When she caught me looking, however, it vanished, to be replaced with an easy smile.

“I wanted it to be a surprise, Angelo, you know that!” She then caught my arm and bade me sit beside her. “And anyway, aren’t you glad you’re meeting him, now?”

“I am, though I must confess I had expected to meet more of him.” Mr. Travers’ eyes glittered in amusement.

Miss Wooster fought back a smile. “Come now, Angelo. That form of humour is beneath you.”

“Certainly not as far as old Reginald is beneath you,” Mr. Travers teased.

Mrs. Travers coughed to hide her laugh. I could not tell whether I felt offended or relieved.

“Now, now, Angelo,” Mrs. Travers admonished, “let us not antagonize poor Reginald here for his height. It is hardly his fault if his parents did not bless him with great stature. Besides, can you imagine the children if Bertie was to marry a tall man? Your neck would nearly snap from saying hello.”

A laugh went around the room, dispelling the last remaining bits of tension. Mrs. Gregson, who was seated directly to my left, actually smiled at me. It was a tense gesture, yet a smile nonetheless.

Someone farther back raised a question about how we had met. Miss Wooster launched into her recital.

“It was a whirlwind romance,” she declared, clasping my hand, “and everything has happened so fast. I met dear Reggie here back in New York when I was there about a month or so ago. Shall I tell you the whole story? Well, then, here it is. I happened into this café and sat down at the counter. I think it was about midnight then, but I don’t recall exactly. Anyway, I ordered a milkshake because I’m fond of them and Reggie, who had ordered one of his own, struck up a conversation with me. We chatted till the wee hours and my fate was sealed.” She cast an adoring glance at me. I tried not to blush. “We met up again the next day and the next but then, of course, I had to go home. It was like the parting of that Aeneas chap and his wife. I was wretched. Rosalyn could tell you I moaned the entire way home, keeping her up half the night, ha-ha. Anyway, I’d left him my calling card so when he found himself on a boat over here, he knocked on my door and we reunited, all things forgotten but each other.” Throughout Miss Wooster’s recital, the crowd had slowly drifted towards the sentimental and was now seen to be dabbing at their eyes and smiling wistfully into the middle distance. I felt my palms to sweat. Miss Wooster’s performance was so far exemplary; yet I still doubted my own. Unfortunately, only time would tell. I simply had to wait it out.

 

~

 

“Bertie, I’m so happy for you, darling,” Mr. Travers said, clasping Miss Wooster’s hand in the doorway, then shaking mine. “Reginald seems the perfect chap for you. Let me know if I should bring more than a fish slice, dear. Good-bye.”

Miss Wooster kissed him on the cheek. “Good-bye, Angelo. Thank you for coming.” She turned to Mrs. Travers. “Thank you for coming, too, Aunt Dahlia. I’m glad you could all meet Reginald.”

“I’m glad too, you ridiculous girl,” Mrs. Travers chuckled. She pressed Miss Wooster’s hand. “This seems like the right decision. I’m glad you’re making it.”

“Thank you, Aunt Dahlia. That means a great deal. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, dear. Good-bye, Reginald.”

Mrs. Gregson approached the entryway. “Bertie, my troublesome niece, you’ve finally made a good choice in your life.”

Miss Wooster flushed. “Oh, thank you, Aunt Agatha. I’m glad you like Reggie as much as I do.”

“I may like him more! I am terribly excited for the wedding, dear. I wish to help with all I can.” She leaned up and kissed Miss Wooster’s cheek. “Good-bye, now. I trust Rosalyn will be returning shortly?”

“Oh, yes,” Miss Wooster asserted, checking the clock. “Very soon indeed, actually.”

“Good, good. I still worry about you being alone in this building, here. One never knows the character of one’s neighbors, truly.”

“Don’t worry about me, Aunt Agatha. I’ve got Reggie.” Miss Wooster slung her arm about my shoulders and smiled proudly.

“That you do, Bertie, that you do. Good-bye, my girl. Good-bye, Reginald. Have a lovely night. Be safe on your walk home, Reginald.”

"Thank you, I will."

“Yes, thank you. Good-bye.”

The door closed, finally, and I exhaled. Miss Wooster planted a large kiss on my cheek.

“You were excellent, darling. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

Anxiety seemed to fall from my form like water over a duck’s back. “The performance was mostly yours.”

“Nonsense. If you weren’t so dashed handsome in that getup, it would have all fallen to pieces. That said, I much prefer you _sans_ beard, if you catch my drift.”

I picked at the itchy thing still clinging to my face. “I do completely, and agree. I only hope it will come off easily.”

“Let me know if you need assistance. I’m going to fetch the champagne. This calls for a celebration!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First comes love, then comes marriage,


	16. A Day of Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie and Rosalyn take a day off from wedding worries.

“Rosalyn?” Miss Wooster whispered.

I opened my eyes.

She bit at her lip, then rolled onto her back. “Sorry, it’s only—well, to be frank, I’m bally well terrified of this exchanging of rings and whatnot that we’ve got coming up. I’ve no idea what to do. The only weddings I’ve ever been to were for other people—well, naturally, but you know what I mean. What am I supposed to do? How does one invite everyone that wishes to be invited? How many tearful embraces are too many? I don’t suppose you’ve read some guide book on the subject?” She cast me a worried glance.

“I haven’t,” I admitted, squeezing her hand, “but I was the maid of honor at my elder sister’s wedding. I may know some of the planning procedure.”

Her expression relaxed. “Oh, jolly good. I know Aunt Agatha and Aunt Dahlia offered to help, but—well, you know.”

I did know. I appreciated their motives, yet this constant hovering on our shoulders was becoming a bit stifling. I conveyed the fact to Miss Wooster.

She laughed. “A _bit_ stifling? My dear girl, you have not seen the half of it. I shouldn’t wonder if they won’t be there, watching, on our wedding night.”

I recoiled from the thought. “You don’t think…?”

“Oh my word!” Miss Wooster giggled. “No, not actually—but your expression just now, Rosie, good Lord, it was hilarious!”

Tenderness rose in me at this. You may think it an odd reaction to being laughed at, but it had been several days since Miss Wooster had felt comfortable enough to engage in the activity. The presence of her relations always dampens her mood. Seeing her thus pleased was dear to me.

After she had calmed, she smiled at me sweetly. “Let us have a sabbath, Rosalyn. These past days have been absolutely horrendous. I’m sure the wedding planning can wait a little longer. Besides, I still never got you to dance with me.” She winked.

I smiled. “That seems an amenable plan. Shall I go make some tea?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” She stretched herself, arms raised above her head and several of her joints cracking. “I think I’ll get dressed and do my face.”

I retired to the kitchen in my dressing gown. My every muscle felt weak with relief that we were no longer being watched. I still could not quite believe that our deception had worked—surely someone had noticed the facial similarities between myself and Mr. Reginald Smith? Perhaps that was a hidden benefit of working in my field. Regardless, it’s results were euphoric.

After the tea, I began cooking a breakfast for us. Miss Wooster prefers her eggs cooked slightly less than I do, and she takes two slices of toast with varying jams. At the moment, we had a nice marmalade and I spread it generously whilst waiting for her to emerge from her room.

When she did, I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you had gotten rid of those.”

She smiled impishly. “Most of them. I kept this one back for a rainy day.” She gave a small twirl, causing her skirt to flare out. I had been commenting on her dress, which was one of the shorter ones her Aunt Agatha had forbidden her to keep. How Miss Wooster had hidden the dress, I could not fathom; Mrs. Gregson’s searching methods were of the most thorough. That said, I could not bring myself to be disappointed, nor very much surprised with Miss Wooster’s choice.

Tearing my gaze away from her long, stocking-clad legs, I poured her a cup of tea.

“Oh, thank you, old thing,” she gasped, having taken a long sip, “this is wonderful, as always.” She then bent to press a kiss to my forehead. “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy the tea you make?”

“Frequently, yes.”

“Well, I do. No one ever makes it the same way. Is it something to do with the timing, or the leaves? If it was the leaves, you’d think someone else would be able to replicate it.”

“I really could not say. Perhaps it is simply because I have learned how you prefer yours, and others have not.”

She smiled. “You shall have to teach me how you prefer _yours_ , sometime. It wouldn’t do for me to be unable to make you a nice cup of the sweet and soothing when you wish it. You would chafe at my uselessness and find some other, more competent beazel to be your bride.”

“I very much doubt that would be possible.”

“Ha! Wouldn’t give up the old employer, eh? Stuck like a rusty pipe, forever glued to my side, and whatnot?”

“Those are not the exact terms I would have employed, but yes.”

“Oh, well,” she grinned, “aren’t you a darling. I have half a mind to kiss you for the next several hours.”

“Were you to do that, your eggs would certainly get unappetizingly cold.”

“Dash the eggs.”

“As you say.”

 

“So,” Miss Wooster drawled, several hours later, “are you still up for dancing, old thing?”

 

~

 

Of course, the bohemian clubs that Miss Wooster and I attended were not open during the daytime. We were obliged to wait until the evening. Miss Wooster, naturally, found fault with this.

“I don’t see why they can’t have a dancing café,” she huffed. “What if one wishes to have a nice, afternoon waltz? Or, perhaps, a breezy morning foxtrot? Not every urge to dance occurs after nine p.m.”

I was obliged to remind her that the hours of operation of bohemian clubs were bound to be limited, more for safety’s sake than anything else.

She sighed. “Yes, I know. I only wish we didn’t have to worry about all that rot. Who cares if I’m dancing with a dame instead of a chappie? Aunts do it all the time, as well as sisters.” She glanced at me. “It’s a shame we don’t look much alike.”

“Indeed.”

“Still,” she said as we smiled at Dorothy and entered the main room, “at least we can do it at all.”

She, being the taller of us, led. I could sense Dorothy’s knowing smile as we turned about the room. Evidently she had been waiting for this moment for some time. I cannot fault her, though; I had been waiting just as long as her, if not longer.

Miss Wooster kept up a steady rhythm of conversation throughout the evening. She mentioned such varying topics as ducks and what one is to do with a lost bicycle one finds lying about. She was of the opinion that one is to claim it as one’s own, given the difficulty of finding the proper owner. I, however, insisted one was to report such items to the local police. She then laughed and called me a chump.

Overall, it was exceedingly pleasant to finally feel her hand at my waist. Miss Wooster is an expert dancer and makes one feel perfectly at ease and confident whilst stepping about. Additionally, there is something to be said for her pretty blue eyes smiling down at one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bertie loves her smol fiancee <3  
> ***  
> There are two ways I've planned the next little bit. Comment 1 for the first way and 2 for the second way. You'll find out what they are later. ;)


	17. Her Guardian Angelo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelo Travers pays a visit. Rosalyn and Bertie are faced with an important choice.

The next day was rather less restful. I arose at my usual hour and busied myself about the flat. Miss Wooster slept until nearly eight o’clock. Her slumber was broken when a visitor arrived.

This visitor was Mr. Angelo Travers. I opened the door to him and he stared at me in a most uncharacteristic manner. I inquired as to whether he wished to see Miss Wooster. He said that he did. He said he also wished to see me, however, a fact that struck me as highly unsettling. I led him through to the sitting room and went to rouse Miss Wooster.

“Mr. Travers has arrived to see you.”

Miss Wooster pushed her hair from her eyes. “Oh, Angelo? What’s he want? Can’t he wait till later?”

“He said it was most urgent.”

“Hmph.”

“He also said he wished to speak with me in addition to you,” I added in an urgent tone.

At that Miss Wooster perked up. “Is that so? Well, let us—er—let us hope for the best, then. Can’t keep Angelo waiting, what? Tally-ho!”

We reentered the sitting room, Miss Wooster clad in her dressing gown and hair still mussed. I remained standing until Mr. Travers told me to sit.

“Won’t you sit, too, Rosalyn? I think this conversation needs to be with all three of us, equally.”

“What _is_ this conversation, anyway, Angelo? What’s so urgent that it can’t wait until noon?” Miss Wooster sipped peevishly at her tea. I am sure anyone who has come into contact with her knows of her aversion to early rising. Mr. Travers typically never called unless he knew she would be awake. This sunrise council meeting of sorts was greatly off-putting.

Mr. Travers glanced nervously at myself. “Well, you see, Bertie…”

“Yes?”

He sighed. “Before I say anything, I wish for you to know that I only want the best for you. Whatever you may think after I’ve said my fill, know that I would never do anything to endanger you, Bertie dear. Nor you, Rosalyn,” he added.

“Thank you,” Miss Wooster said tremulously. “But what on earth can you be saying? Is there—has someone died? Are you ill?”

“No, no, no. Nothing like that. It’s only…”

“Please just say it. This suspense is painful.”

He steeled himself. “I know your engagement is false, Bertie—or, rather, I should say, _mislabeled._ ”

I could feel Miss Wooster tense and I saw her go pale. I myself felt rather faint.

“What do you mean?” she whispered. I longed to grab for her hand.

“I mean that,” he faltered, “I mean that I know there is no Reginald Smith in existence, and that, if there was, he’d look rather a lot like Rosalyn here.”

Miss Wooster chuckled. “What? Of course he’s real, whatever are you insinuating? Are you feeling quite alright?”

“I’m feeling fine, thank you. What I’m insinuating is this: that Reginald _is_ Rosalyn.”

And thus was paradise lost. My hands grew clammy as the world seemed to grey. I can only imagine what I looked like just then. Certainly I could have been no better than Miss Wooster, who gaped and alternately paled and flushed. Her hands were trembling in her lap.

“I haven’t told anyone,” Mr. Travers added hurriedly, “and I don’t mean to. I only wanted you to know that I knew, and that I—that I,” he looked at me, “that I rather think it’s a good match.”

I fear I may have been tearing up, then, out of relief at his words. Miss Wooster clutched fiercely at my hand.

“You do?” she choked out. It seemed she had been crying, too. “You really do?”

He smiled kindly. “I really do. I must say I’m glad my mother didn’t force you into anything. She’s beastly with that.”

Miss Wooster chuckled wetly. “That she is.” She ran a hand over her eyes. “Oh, good Lord, Angelo,” she gasped, “I don’t know what I would do without you.” She was now crying fully at this point and Mr. Travers rose out of his seat and clasped her other hand.

“Oh, Bertie, darling,” he hushed, “it’s alright. I won’t let anyone else find out. It’ll all be alright, old thing.”

Miss Wooster silently sobbed. We soothed her until she calmed.

After Miss Wooster retired to the bathroom to wash her face, I turned to Mr. Travers. “Was it very easy to tell, sir, that it was a ruse?”

“What—oh, er… somewhat. But then you must remember that I was the youngest person in the room besides yourselves. The other guests’ eyesight must be going.”

His words were frightening, to say the least. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what was it that gave it away?”

“Your hands. They are rather small for a man’s. After that, well—it all came together.”

I stared disdainfully at said appendages. How was I to disguise them in future? At the wedding I might wear gloves, yet those were removed when greeting the guests. Oh, what turmoil I was in, then.

Mr. Travers set a gentle hand on my shoulder. (I nearly loathed it for being the correct size.) “Rosalyn, if I may give some advice…”

I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak.

“I know Bertie hates the thought of moving away. She’s said so many times. But… perhaps it wouldn’t be unwise for you two to take an extended holiday? France is gorgeous this time of year and if you picked the right spot, my mother would never even think to visit you.”

I considered his words. While our abrupt departure would certainly cause some concern amongst Miss Wooster’s relatives—especially those who had offered to help with the wedding—it would put us in a more secure position for the long-term.

A paralyzing thought came into my mind, then. I tried to ignore it, yet still it remained. What if this engagement and marriage was not intended for the long-term?

Miss Wooster returned, dressed simply and with face washed. She sat down beside me and chewed at her lip.

“Well?” she said. “What are we to do? Have you any idea, Rosalyn?” She turned to me with such hope and confidence in her eyes.

“I believe, miss,” I began quietly, “that we must first ask ourselves what to do with regards to the wedding, if we are having one. Mr. Travers has informed me that it was my hands which destroyed the image. If you are not averse to wearing gloves during the wedding, we may be able to avoid some suspicion, although I fear it would return whilst we greeted the guests afterwards.”

“But—what’s all this ‘ _if_ we’re having a wedding’? I thought it was given?”

“Mr. Travers thinks it would be wise for us to elope, miss, so as to avoid any unnecessary contact with your relations. He suggests France as an ideal location, provided we pick somewhere Mrs. Travers would not be inclined to visit.”

Miss Wooster frowned. “I see your point, Angelo, but wouldn’t that make everyone _more_ suspicious?”

“That would be a risk you would have to take,” he said, straightening his tie. “I believe it would be worth it, but that’s a decision you two’ll have to make.”

Miss Wooster looked at me. “Well, Rosalyn? What’s it to be? Marriage or elopement?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the next part could go two ways.  
> Vote 1 for marriage, 2 for elopement.  
> By the way, in case anyone was wondering, Rosalyn typically wears something like [this](https://proxy.duckduckgo.com/iur/?f=1&image_host=https%3A%2F%2Fs-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com%2Foriginals%2F60%2F5e%2F91%2F605e91aa59bd7c469b86e2c659298021.jpg&u=https://i.pinimg.com/originals/60/5e/91/605e91aa59bd7c469b86e2c659298021.jpg), _not_ like [this](https://proxy.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Fsummertime75.files.wordpress.com%2F2010%2F09%2F451.jpg&f=1) (although she might don the latter for a nice evening in with Bertie [wink wink]).


	18. Finalement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two criminals flee the country.

Telegrams are not difficult to send, neither are trunks and bags on an early train. Tickets can be procured with laughable ease and a jaunty tilt of the hat over the eye and a tall-collared jacket against the morning drizzle can do away with almost all recognition in a crowded station. One may get stiff from a long train-ride, but muscle soreness is easy to relieve in a warm bath. Relaxation can come even more quickly when the tub is doubly-occupied.

I can easily conjure up a myriad of different reactions to the notes we sent. Most of them involve a general widening of the eyes and tightening of the mouth, yet there is the occasional fond chuckle or exasperated roll of the eyes that comes to mind. One can only hope that there was no deep scowl and hot flush about the cheeks as the telegram was tossed into the fireplace.

The one reaction I did have the pleasure of viewing was that of Mr. Travers. He gave a kind smile and gently nodded his head before pulling out a scrap of paper and beginning to sketch out details. Miss Wooster and I sat with him for only about half an hour before it was all decided. These things really are much easier to accomplish than anyone gives them credit for. By the time I began to have my first twinges of anxiety, we were already three-quarters of the way to that southern haven of the bohemians that I was now to call my home.

Indeed, it really was rather simple to leave the country. I had planned these sorts of midnight flees many times before following one of Miss Wooster’s tussles with her relations. The steps I took were well-worn into the carpet of my mind.

It is now in these recollections that I am tempted to wrap the whole thing up and leave our small paradise a mystery. It is not out of fear that someone may find these papers, but rather that I am in no small way jealous of my time spent here with Miss Wooster. She is no less beautiful now than she was when we first arrived in France and my appreciation of her charms has only grown with time. I feel an urge to get up from the writing-desk and seek her out, rather than detail all of our escapes since elopement.

I most likely cannot describe in any comprehensible way the steps we took over the years to avoid Mrs. Gregson and Mrs. Travers. The latter has come searching many times for us while on holiday. I believe were it not for the great assistance we received from friends such as Mr. Travers as well as many new accomplices found here, we would have been discovered many years hence. As it is, however, the ivy has grown thick on the walls of our little cottage and the cushions have grown thin and vaguely uncomfortable. For that I am more thankful than anything else in this world; besides, naturally, meeting Miss Wooster in the first place.

I feel some guilt at leaving the reader without more detail, yet I wish also for him to imagine just how tenderly I guard my memories of my darling. To write them down would be to expose her sweet heart and the gentle curves of her nature that she has shown me since our relocation here. I could not describe them to you in perfect words, nor would I wish to. I am certain the reader can understand.

As it is, however, I shall leave you with a parting image. The scene is the small bench (or _banc_ , as the French call it) outside our home, and the hour is nearing dusk. The characters are Miss Wooster and myself, tenderly enjoying the other’s hand in our own. There is an ambiance of levity as a small brass band festival is gathering in the valley below us. Miss Wooster’s impish grin points outward and I rest my gaze on her fair countenance. She speaks occasionally of the music, teasing me with recollections of her own ill-fated endeavors.

“I don’t suppose you’d enjoy my joining the band, eh, Rosalyn?”

I grimaced. “Not exactly, no.” This caused her to laugh.

“Fair enough, then, I suppose, though I must disagree. I am certain I should be the best trumpeter this side of the Atlantic, surpassed only by those American johnnies who play jazz. Can’t you see me in the band, Rosalyn? Touring the country, with roses being tossed at me by my adoring fans… The wonder, the prestige of it all.” She sighed dreamily. “What a life that would be.”

I agreed with her in a vague sort of way. Her thumb was tracing waves over the back of my hand.

She paused, then, and looked at me in a strikingly adoring way. “Of course, the only rose I need to be thrown at me would be you, dear Rosalyn,” she simpered, grinning.

I laughed, then kissed her.

 

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I decided to wrap up the story because I am unable to continue writing as much anymore. I started college this year and a new relationship and I've just been really busy haha. I really appreciate all of the comments this story has gotten and all of the feedback I've received from you guys. Thanks so much for reading this silly little story <3  
> \- M


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